Somewhere Only We Know
by SlytherinPride2292
Summary: (Sequel to 'A Darkness Like Mine') Ed Nygma and Sylvia Cobblepot become Oswald's consultants for running Gotham as its Mayor as well as its Kingpin. As Sylvia and Oswald get ready for their newborn daughter's arrival, Sylvia has to adapt to her pregnancy lifestyle, while also finding a way to still be Oswald's ultimate weapon.
1. Making Peace

Chapter 1: Making Peace

* * *

Tabitha was in the hospital.

Even after she had been brutally stabbed in the gut by her brother, she had managed to stay alive; Harvey Bullock had called an ambulance and she was rushed to Gotham General. The medics had managed to stabilize her, but soon after, her health had quickly deteriorated—and she was currently lying in bed, in a coma.

Normally, a nurse would come in, check on Tabitha's condition, make very little notes of improvement, and wouldn't return again until the next hour to do the exact same thing. Sitting across from Tabitha in a low, arm chair was Butch. Every hour a nurse would come alone. Every day passed like any other.

One day, he'd been relaxed (for the most part) until the same nurse came into the room, accompanied by an unexpected visitor: Sylvia Cobblepot.

Immediately, Butch stood, pulled out his loaded .44, cocked it, and aimed the barrel straight at her. The nurse, stricken with uncertainty and surprise, put her hands to her mouth, gasping. Sylvia, on other hand, had little to no reaction.

"Calm down, Butchy." Sylvia said flatly, gesturing to him. "I'm not here to kill your lady love. Nurse" (the nurse quickly met her gaze) "would you kindly?"

The nurse excused herself.

Sylvia stood at the foot of Tabitha's bed, looking over the young woman with little interest while Butch kept the gun aimed at her, more or less as a threat.

He warned, "If you touch her…."

"You'll kill me, I got it." Sylvia returned, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes. "I told you. I'm not going to kill her. Even if I did end her life, it would be anticlimactic. She wouldn't know the difference. And that wouldn't give me any sort of satisfaction."

Butch measured the weight of her words before sheathing his loaded weapon, noticing how less uptight she appeared, which had been a considerable change since he last saw her.

After Oswald Cobblepot was admitted to Arkham, he was brainwashed by Strange. His rehabilitation had incidentally led to Oswald and Sylvia's separation in marriage. Vowing to keep his kingdom under her control in any case he decided to 'wake up' and remember who he was and what she meant to him, Sylvia had taken over the Underworld, despite her reluctance to rule a kingdom she had never wanted. In doing so, she batted off anyone who attempted to take the kingdom away from her, including Tabitha and Butch on two different occasions, and a young man who was the Heir to the Anderson Family….that was until Sylvia made an example of him.

Sylvia was naturally more fiery, impulsive, and more sadistic than her counterpart. Being the primary ruler, that part of her personality had—in some ways—calmed down in order to allow for patience, maturity, and logical thinking to grow. In more ways than one, she wasn't the same person she used to be.

And with good reason: she had many burdens to bear, and while Oswald was gone—she carried the burden alone….well, for the most part. She had one other loyal soldier.

A soldier by the name of James Gordon, who was also her brother, one year older than she. In likeness in temper and combat, as well as in their appearances, they could have appeared identical if not for Sylvia's bright ginger-colored hair, a trait she had inherited from their mother.

It wasn't uncommon to hear Sylvia and Jim argue all the time. They stood on opposite ends where the law was concerned, but as the monsters in Gotham became weirder and more supernatural, it was becoming inherently obvious that the line of right and wrong was never so black and white. As Sylvia always said, 'it's blue, green, purple, and lots and lots of red'.

Sylvia somehow managed to become involved in his life on a weekly basis, whether that meant getting neck-deep in dangerous affairs or assisting him and Harvey Bullock with their ongoing investigations. After many months of denying it, he'd finally admitted that he needed her more than she needed him.

Taking all of this into consideration, it went without saying that Sylvia rarely took a Mental Health day.

After murdering his step family, and mourning the loss of his late father, Oswald Cobblepot had come back and took over in ruling the empire. It was also around that time that Butch joined Penguin in defeating Azrael (AKA Theo Galavan), killing him once and for all.

While he'd been working for Penguin since then, Butch hadn't seen much of Sylvia, owing to the fact that she had taken more than a couple Mental Health days to decompress. After not seeing her for a week, Butch took in Sylvia's appearance.

She was wearing a Gothic's style of fish net stockings; leather black, three-inch boots; a low-V-neck blouse the color of blood, the sleeves created a criss-cross weave with the hem ending at her elbows. Fingerless gloves cradled her hands. The look combined with the heavy, black winged eyeliner and silver eyeshadow gave Sylvia the look of a very exotic raven. The only bright color that caught the eye was in her dark auburn hair, which had a single streak of bright baby blue.

"You look…." Butch began, but he stopped in speech. He wasn't certain what he might have started to say. Was he giving her a compliment or about to insult her? Either way, he didn't finish as she interrupted him with a wave of her hand.

"I didn't really come here to have a chat," Sylvia said, walking past Tabitha's bed and meeting him in the center of the room.

"If you didn't come to kill her," Butch said coolly. "Or to talk, why are you here?"

"To make peace."

"Excuse me?"

"Yes, you heard me." Sylvia said calmly. "We've had our ups and downs, especially where _she_ is concerned…." (Her eyes shot to Tabitha indicatively and returned to Butch). "Despite _that…._ " (her eyes briefly closed as though she was acquiring more self-control) "….I'd like to think we could put the past behind us, considering that you and I have known each for a little while."

"I'd say that's an understatement, Liv." Butch chuckled, raising his eyebrows impressively.

"Well, it remains. I mean, look at the facts. You were Fish Mooney's constant, then Victor's project" (Butch twitched involuntarily at the flashback of those bad days) "and then you were Oswald's reluctant stooge. During those days, I'd like to think you and I had a certain type of friendship."

"I figured that friendship hadn't changed."

"Well, it did the night your little girlfriend stabbed Gertrud in the fucking back," Sylvia said, her lip curling in spite. "But then again, I shouldn't really blame you for that one. After all, Tabitha was the one who held the knife."

"Yeah…."

"But you were also working for Galavan."

"I didn't have a choice in that one. They fixed me."

"I'll give you that. They worked on you for a good while." Sylvia said, granting leniency. Then her tone suddenly sharpened: "But you _chose_ to be Tabitha's partner. Not to mention you tried to take the empire away from me… _twice_."

As she talked, Sylvia had slowly moved closer to Butch, who proudly stayed quite still. She now stood face-to-face with him, although, due to their height difference, she was at least a foot and a half shorter than he. In spite of her small stature, she commanded an intimidating presence and Butch was careful not to give the impression that he was challenging her status.

"So what's your point?" Butch said carefully.

"You're useful," Sylvia said bluntly. "Not your _mind_ so much…but where muscle and brawn are concerned, you are, at least."

"Strike a man when he's down, huh?"

"I could be a lot more condescending if I wanted."

"I have no doubt about that."

"I'll get straight to the point. You're working for Penguin, are you not?"

"I guess I am."

"I'll need more of a confirmation than that."

"Tabitha's down for the count, Liv..."

"That much is true. She _is_ down for the count," Sylvia agreed too happily, smirking at Tabitha's incapacitated state. "But not a confirmation of your loyalty does that make."

"What do you want from me?"

"I told you what I want."

"Did Penguin put you up to this?"

"Put me up to what?"

"This visit."

"No, I came on my own." Sylvia returned calmly. "And what I want from you, Butch, is an honest answer. When Oswald told me that you joined him, I thought he was fucking kidding. When he was serious, I had to come down here, find out for myself. I want to make sure that you're not trying to weasel out a way to undermine him."

"Yes..."

"Yes what?"

"I'm working for Penguin."

"Mmm." She sounded unconvinced.

"You don't believe me?" Butch asked—he wouldn't admit it aloud, but he was offended.

"You could say that."

"After everything you've done, Liv, there'd be no way I would try to go against you. You don't have to prove anything to _me_. Trust me."

"Hm. And what if Tabitha wakes up? Are you going to sequester yourself to her, and betray my husband a second time?"

"The first time wasn't really my fault."

"No, you're right—Galavan scrambled your brain, and Tabitha was the spatula." Sylvia conceded, smirking in spite of herself. "I'll give you that. But there's no more brainwashing you, and there's no excuse that would save you from me killing you if you were to betray him again. So, I'll ask again. And this time, please be forward: _Are_ you working for Penguin?"

"Yes, I am."

"Do you work for Tabitha?"

"No…."

"Or anyone else?"

"No."

Sylvia's stern expression softened, and the corner of her mouth tugged upward.

"Good to hear it." She congratulated, offering a genuine smile to him.

"Joining up to kill Azrael…." Sylvia sighed, placing her hand on the back of Butch's arm chair, saying, "I couldn't think of a better way to restart a business relationship. That certainly makes things even between you and Penguin, I imagine."

"Did he say that?"

"Not in so many words."

"What about you and me?" Butch asked.

"What _about_ you and me?"

"Are we square?"

Sylvia sighed, "You and I have history. By that standard, I think we should be fine. Just as long as you behave yourself if ever _this_ thing" (She gestured to Tabitha) "decides to open its eyes."

Butch frowned: "You're not going to walk in and kill her when she wakes up, are you?"

"Killing someone just when they're waking up from a coma? That's hardly sporting. What kind of person do you think I am?" Sylvia chortled, feigning hurt, grinning from ear-to-ear.

"I don't know, but that chuckle isn't really reassuring."

"Trust me, Butch. I wouldn't harm a single hair on her pretty little head."

As a gesture of openness and honesty, Sylvia walked over to Tabitha's bed, patted the woman's forehead with a softness that only a mother could present, and then smiled lovingly at Butch.

"Unless Oswald tells me I can," She confessed darkly. "Currently, he's the _only_ reason why this bitch is still alive."

Butch would have come to Tabitha's defense, but seeing as Sylvia was behaving and doing nothing too violent, he let that slide.

A nurse came by to record the stats. During this time, Sylvia and Butch were silent. When the nurse left, Butch turned completely to Sylvia.

"Why did you come here?"

"Weren't you listening?" She said pointedly. "I came by to settle things."

"But why here, to the hospital? You couldn't have waited until I got home?"

"You've been spending every night here on that chair, Butch. I would have been waiting for only god knows how long to have this conversation with you if I tried waiting at _your_ place. For all I know, you'd probably have tried avoiding me."

Butch nodded, supposing that to be true. He cared to note that Sylvia's eyes were like that of a hawk's as she stared at Tabitha's sleeping body. One could only imagine the horrid images flashing through her mind.

"Galavan's dead." Butch said conversationally, letting out a quiet sigh. "That should make living in Gotham a little easier."

"Until another psycho decides to wreak more havoc on the city." She reminded, sitting on an arm of the chair as Butch sat on the edge of Tabitha's bed.

"Well, before that, we'll get some quiet time."

"I don't much care for the silence."

"Too peaceful?"

Sylvia cocked an eyebrow at him.

"You know, contrary to what you may think of me, I _am_ someone who likes a little peace. But silence—that moment where everything is still and quiet….in that kind of silence and shadow, that is where the darkest of minds plan and the seediest of freaks grow."

"That's poetic."

"Thank you, I made it up on the spot." Her affect became serious as she added, "The world is full of monsters."

"Most of it seems to generate in the Narrows."

"The Narrows is just a pipeline. Gotham is the root of all madness."

"It never used to be this crazy."

"I remember. But the world is changing."

"Are we?"

"Are we what?"

"Changing too?"

"We're changing every day." Sylvia exhaled, sliding off the arm of the chair. "You, me…Even Sleeping Beauty, here. We're changing every day. Some of us—not for the best."

They were quiet for a moment. In that time, Sylvia observed her fingernails, polished midnight blue.

"I really considered you a friend," Butch said suddenly, making her look at him, startled.

"I'd say you were mine as well. Intentional or not, you proved to be someone I could trust. Until you and little Miss Thang became an item."

"She's not that bad."

"She stabbed my mother-in-law in the back."

"She didn't have much of a choice."

"What, because Galavan was her boss?" Sylvia said cynically. " _Please_ …She had a choice. She didn't want to release Gertrud—she wanted to have her cake and eat it too. I say she got the whole bakery: she made my husband miserable, pissed me off, and got rid of a witness all in one go."

"She's changed." Butch defended Tabitha. "She's not the same person…."

"Don't waste your time," Sylvia scoffed. "The woman I see and the woman _you_ love are the _same_. Now, despite what she has done, I might have been able to get over everything but she killed the only mother figure I had."

"Penguin killed Fish. _She_ was like a mother to you."

"Yeah, until she stabbed me in the neck and carved a fish into my skin—how _motherly_. Fish wasn't the same person as Gertrud; Fish _deserved_ to be thrown into the river after what she did to me, to my family. I was happy when Oswald killed her. Gertrud was sweet, affectionate, and she never did a bad thing to me, or ever spoke a word against me—Gertrud didn't deserve to die."

Butch was out of excuses. He pressed his lips tightly together, uncertain as to what to say to make things a little less tense. Sylvia crossed her arms.

"On some level, I miss her. Fish, I mean. I'd always been mischievous as a kid; but if it wasn't for Fish, I wouldn't have known how to be a real criminal. In some ways, she _was_ a mother—I can give her that much credit. But she was more of a Tiger mom, than anything."

"Yeah. She was hard to impress."

"And hard to please."

"No kidding," He laughed.

An awkward moment of silence intervened, during which Butch tried to pick nonexistent lint off the seat of his pants and Sylvia looked at the clock, but not really seeing the time.

"She loved you, you know," Butch said quietly.

"Excuse me?"

"She loved you. Like a daughter."

"Tough love."

"Yeah, but she really loved you." He insisted.

"Yeah, and how did she show it?" Sylvia responded coldly. "A mother forgives a child for her transgressions, you know. And how did she forgive me? She carves a fish into my neck. She stabs Oswald's hand with a fucking broach pen. And she strung up my husband, my brother, and Harvey Bullock like three people getting ready to be hung on the gallows. And when she and Maroni were about to kill Falcone and the others, where was I? I can tell you where. In a fucking janitor closet, thanks to you."

"I was following orders."

" _Her_ orders—"

"I told you I was sorry about that."

"Well, the King's Men and Horses said sorry when they couldn't figure out how to fix an egg, but that didn't put Humpty Dumpty back together again, did it?" Sylvia returned sarcastically.

Butch cleared his throat uncomfortably. She certainly could make a man feel like he was treading on egg shells.

"She still loved you." He persisted. "Maybe not in the way a mother would love her daughter, but I know it."

Sylvia crossed her arms in a pout: "She may have, but her death was no less deserving."

"I miss those days. You know, back when all we had to worry about was Falcone and Maroni having it out at each other."

"Back when Oz was managing a restaurant and I was a fucking shift lead?"

"You gotta admit, those were good days—compared to what we've dealt with in the past couple of weeks."

"Cards on the table, Butch: I try to _forget_ those days."

"I don't mean the days when you were working for Maroni." Butch winced a little as he said it. "You deserve a lot of what happened to you, but that incident with Maroni's men….I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy."

"I still have dreams about that. Nightmares, you know," Sylvia muttered, glancing at Butch who met her eyes sympathetically.

"Do you?"

"Every time I go to sleep," She said darkly. "I remember Mack—that fucking yellow Spongecake. I remember what it felt like to be powerless, unable to stop it…unable to stop _him_. It's a defenseless feeling, you know, being unable to stop someone from hurting you. Even though I know I killed him, that he died, that I made him suffer before he did…when I go to sleep, and I dream, it's like it doesn't matter. It happens all over again...when I wake up, realize that it's over, I breathe, I get over it, and I start my day…just so I can fall back to sleep and do it all over again."

Butch frowned. He stood, and walked over to her.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Sylvia asked suspiciously.

Without saying anything, Butch put his arms around her. He hugged her. Sylvia welcomed it, although she didn't hug him back. He took a step back from her, sending her a supportive smile.

"Something happens every night though," She said encouragingly. "I tell myself that it makes me stronger for surviving it. At least, it keeps me from driving myself completely insane."

"And you have Oswald."

"Yes. I have Oswald." There was a twinkle in her eye as she said it.

"Does he still feel guilty for what happened?"

"I can't tell." Sylvia confessed, smiling a little. "We've ghosted over the topic a few times, but I can't tell if he still does. I told him not to worry about it."

"He's more protective of you since then."

"No doubt he is."

"I am too…."

"Are you? I couldn't tell. You fawn over Tabitha so much; I can't imagine you still have room in your heart for little old me."

"Despite what happened between us in the past, I still have a soft spot for you, Liv. Even if it's smaller than my fingernail."

"How sweet." Sylvia returned sardonically. "I never knew you cared so much for me."

"It's the reason why I persuaded Tabitha not to come for you a third time."

"Yeah, because the first two times you tried taking over my empire was not enough."

"We wouldn't have taken over."

" _She_ would have. She was greedy."

"After being undermined by people so many times, can you blame her?"

"If she seeks retribution for how her brother treated her, that's not my problem. Instead of killing Galavan—like I would have if he was _my_ brother—she decided to remind Galavan of who he was. By the way, _she_ is the reason Bruce Wayne nearly died that night."

"She didn't mean to do it."

"Coming to her defense, as usual."

"Like how you defend Penguin."

"It's easy for me to defend him," Sylvia countered. "He didn't kill Gertrud."

"He's killed plenty of people."

"That he has. But so have I. You, me, Tabitha, Oswald—we're all just a bunch of little sinners. Personally, I wouldn't be too occupied with what Oswald or I have done in the past. If I were you, I'd be more concerned about what you did to Barbara."

"I didn't do anything to her."

"You kicked her out."

"She was crazy!"

"So?" Sylvia questioned, gesturing to him. "She just got out of Arkham. What do you expect? Plus, she has a certificate of sanity. That's something to consider."

"I don't know how—Strange is just releasing people left and right. You think he'd be a little more particular."

"You give that hack a lot more credit for being sane than I do."

Butch backtracked to his earlier point: "Barbara's fine. She'll be okay."

"Yeah, she will be. She's been living with Oswald and me for the past two weeks."

"And how's that working?"

"Like a charm," Sylvia said sarcastically.

"So, you're getting tired of her too." Butch said, smirking at her.

"You know, it was one thing when she wasn't fucking crazy. Back when she was engaged to my brother, it was easier to tolerate her." Sylvia said almost lovingly, looking up at the ceiling. "Now it's like living with a hyper, Homecoming Queen. Everything has to be this way, that way, this, that, and the other. She likes interior decorating—I've been fine with her rearranging the mansion to fit her tastes, but it's starting to disrupt my day-to-day activities."

"Such as?" Butch said humorously.

"She moved the couch in the _middle of the night_! I damn near broke my neck just walking through the living room. Hit my foot on the leg of the couch, and tripped over the fucking coffee table."

"It's part of the reason why I kicked her out," said Butch as he took a disposable paper cup from the counter of the sink in the hospital room, and filled it with tap water from the faucet. "But interior design isn't my thing."

"Are you certain of that?"

"I'm pretty certain: never cared much for arranging furniture."

"I'm not talking about _that_. I meant the reason behind kicking her out."

Butch narrowed his eyes at her: "What are you getting at?"

"Well, it's not exactly a secret, Butchy. You, Barbara, Tabitha—the poster peeps of the ménage à trois." Sylvia hummed, smirking wickedly at him. "How did it go? You and Tabitha, then Tabitha and Babs—did you and Babs ever…."

"It was just strictly those two," He said quickly, pointing at Tabitha. "I don't—I wouldn't—"

"Ooh, no need to get all defensive. No one would blame you, you know. Barbara is a very beautiful woman. Once or twice when she was fucking that Montoya cop, I thought about offering my company."

Butch's eyebrows raised curiously.

"Have you ever..?"

"No." Sylvia answered his silent question. "Personally, I haven't. I've been interested, but mildly only. But the matter itself has never been presented to Oswald or me. I mean, even if it was…well, he's not exactly _open_ to sharing me with another person. And I wouldn't like any woman near _him_. I think the only solution if ever the concept of a threesome were to arise would for the third person to be a male."

"Another _man_?" Butch chuckled, shaking his head. "You think Penguin would be _okay_ with that? Seeing you with another guy?"

"Don't know. Never brought it up."

"Got anyone in mind?"

"Are you offering me your company?" Sylvia teased.

Butch quickly turned a shade of bright red, even started sweating a little as he said quickly, "Uh—what-oh no, no, no…."

"Don't think Tabitha would like that?"

"Well, to be quite honest and transparent with you, Liv—I don't want to know—"

"Calm down, man. I'm just playing with you. Settle."

Butch was more than happy to turn the attention on her.

"Do you have anyone in mind if the subject were to come up?"

Sylvia smiled guiltily but she didn't say it.

In all honesty, she and Ed Nygma had this very conversation in the past, back when Ed had confessed his feelings (both sexual and romantic) to her and Sylvia had admitted the same. And while the conversation had led to a dangerous place—and while she was still at odds with the fact that Ed had primarily been responsible for framing Jim and putting him in prison—she still thought of the idea.

The idea of having Oswald, Ed, and herself naked in a bed had been mind-numbing and during nights when Oswald worked late in the office as the Kingpin, discussing matters with the Five Families as well as performing a few duties of his own, Sylvia would lie awake in bed, playing with herself and imagining the three of them entangled under the bed sheets.

"No one in particular," Sylvia said finally, although she felt the heat rising to her face.

At that moment, a nurse came in, jotting down Tabitha's never-changing stats, and then exited the room. Somehow, this provided enough of a segue that Sylvia's embarrassment subsided, giving way to another conversation needing to be had.

"Penguin wants Hugo Strange." Butch said, business-like.

"I am aware that he does. He put Oswald through hell. Myself, included."

"How so?"

"He made Oswald forget who he was," Sylvia said darkly. "I haven't forgiven Strange for doing that. Not to mention the fact that he failed to inform me that he was intercepting all forms of communication between Oswald and me. The fucker made Oswald think he was going through rehabilitation all alone."

"I imagine this is yet another reason you came by? To help Penguin find Strange?"

Sylvia's smile was all the response he needed.

Butch said lightly, "How are we supposed to find Strange."

"Finding Strange is easy. He's locked up in his hospital."

"So, we go through the hospital."

"It'd be easy enough, but he has multiple guards."

"So, we kill them," Butch offered.

"Theoretically, that would work. But there's more to it than you think."

"What's more to it?"

"He's building monsters."

"Monsters?"

"Yes, Butch. _Monsters_. Like Azrael. Like Victor."

"Zsasz?"

"No. _Fries_."

"Fries? He's dead."

"That's what Strange would have you believe," Sylvia mused, as she leaned her back against the wall. "But it's not true."

"Why do you think so?"

"Because my brother saw Fries."

"Jim saw Victor?"

"In the flesh…but Victor isn't what he used to be. He's been walking around in some kind of metal suit, freezing people left and right. Not exactly a lively thing, but he's certainly not dead. And if Mr. Freeze is alive, I certainly believe there will be others coming back from the void as well."

"Who?"

"Who knows. People who are currently dead are as follows: Fish…Jerome Valeska…God forbid any of _them_ come back from the dead."

"So, if Gordon knows Strange is doing illegal stuff, why hasn't Strange been arrested?"

"Strange isn't stupid. He had everything shredded—any and all of the evidence—before my brother and Harvey Bullock could descend on the situation," Sylvia uttered hatefully.

"Victor Fries is only one man. Azrael too—how do you know there are more monsters in the basement?" Butch questioned, confused. "What's your source?"

"Edward Nygma."

" _Who_?"

"Edward Nygma. He used to be the Forensics for the GCPD until he framed Jim for Galavan's death."

"He framed your brother for killing Galavan?"

"Yes, he did."

"I thought _you_ killed Galavan."

"The first time, yes I did." Sylvia confirmed. "But Edward is clever. He framed Jim and got him arrested and put into Black Gate for a time."

"And you visited him?"

"I did."

"Why would you talk to him? Why would you give him the time of day if he hurt your family and you? You just finished telling me how much you want to kill Tabby for doing what she's done to you—for what Fish did—and this is your brother…."

"It's complicated," Sylvia returned unhappily. "If you can't tell, all of my friendships are. With you, with Ed—they're complicated. Particularly with him. And that's not really the point. My point is that I visited him in Arkham. I talked to him. One night, he escaped his cell. He told me that inmates were disappearing down a hallway, never to be seen again. He tracked it, found the door, picked the lock, took an elevator down to the bottom-most floor, and he saw people dead, alive, and the undead. By the time he finished explaining it all to me, he was almost in hysterics. After I calmed him down, he told me that Strange has been making people—creating them back from the dead—and turning them into _thing_ s."

Butch chuckled, "If I didn't know better, I say you like Nygma."

"We're talking about people coming back to life," Sylvia said curtly, "And you want to talk about my relationship regarding Ed?"

"Like I said, if I didn't know you better—"

"—I'd say you know a lot less."

"I'm just saying…Barbara…Oswald…Edward Nygma…it seems you might have a thing for crazies…."

Sylvia bounced herself off the wall. The armchair that Butch had previously occupied was the only barrier between them; Sylvia's hands balanced on one of the arms and she leaned forward.

"I'm _this_ close to pushing you off a goddamn cliff," Sylvia threatened. "So kindly keep your assumptions to yourself, yeah?"

Butch nodded quickly, although his simpering smirk never left his face.

"Oswald isn't crazy. And Edward Nygma _isn't_ a lunatic. He's a genius. They both are. Smarter than you or myself."

"So, Nygma's smart. _He_ put your brother behind bars."

"A crime that he's paying for currently."

"And you're fine with this—you're fine with him framing your brother?"

"Of course, I'm not!"

"But you're still his friend—"

"—On a whim—"

"—You visited him—"

"I came to him for information I knew only _he'd_ have," Sylvia responded hotly. " _Yes_ , he put my brother in jail. _Yes_ , he hurt me in a way that is unforgivable, but he's seeking retribution for it. He's trying to make it up to me. Being locked up in a crazy house pretty much limits his abilities to do it, so I've been giving him a few different options. So far, he has taken each and every one of them, including helping me find out what Strange plans to do with all these fucking Frankensteins."

Butch appeared deep in thought: "How does someone arrest Strange if he got rid of all the evidence?"

"That's a good question," Sylvia muttered. "I have to talk to Jim—he's been trying to go about finding a way inside Arkham Asylum. To find evidence that Strange has locked away."

"He wants Strange too?" Butch asked.

"Yes, but for different reasons."

She didn't bother explaining it, at least not to him.

The truth be told, Jim Gordon was after Strange's secrets ever since he figured out that the doctor was the man known as the 'The Philosopher'. It had only been a nickname, but The Lady claimed the 'Philosopher' had been the one to put the hit out on Thomas and Martha Wayne, sending Matches Malone to do the deed, and orphaning young Bruce one fateful night. After finding out that Strange was dirty, Jim and Harvey Bullock had visited Strange twice; first, it was to find out Strange was dirty, and after finding out he was, the second visit was a raid. The doctor and his assistant, Ms. Peabody, had shredded all incriminating evidence—after, Jim and Harvey had left empty-handed.

While Harvey and Jim wanted justice for what Strange had done, Sylvia wanted to see the Head of Psychiatry locked away for more personal reasons, which included Strange's involvement in causing Oswald and her to separate for a time, as well has having been the primary cause for aforementioned separation….considering the fact that it was Strange's fault for brainwashing Oswald to the point the latter believed he no longer felt that he nor Sylvia were compatible lovers.

Needless to say, Strange had made quite a few enemies.

Whether Jim was going for the third try, Sylvia wasn't certain. She was adamant about helping Bruce find atonement for his parents, but there was a line she had to draw in order to not become so involved in the investigation.

After all, she did have a life that didn't evolve around Jim's antics. _Lean on Vee_ 's still had to be run by someone who knew the club business, and even though she had stepped down from being the One Ruler of the Underworld, she still aimed to be at Oswald's disposal if he needed to fire ammunition.

Oswald had slowly gotten his affairs in order; his power house had become his own Mansion where business was conducted. Occasionally, the former Falcone Mansion was used as Headquarters in order to keep the business matters from infiltrating private moments between Oswald and Sylvia. Otherwise, business was conducted at the Van Dahl mansion.

"Have you heard from Gordon?" Butch asked curiously.

"Not recently." Sylvia returned, chewing on the nail of her pinky nervously. "It has me worried, actually."

"With Gordon being a cop and all," He said good-humoredly, "I figured _he_ would be the more protective one."

"Jim and I are a lot alike. We're both emotionally invested into things. When one becomes obsessed, the other must play the part of the older sibling. Right now, all Jim wants is to find Strange and give him what the psychiatrist deserves, even if it means getting himself into trouble."

"Sounds like a lot of work, looking after Gordon."

"You're right about that."

"So what's the would-be cop up to these days?"

"Last I heard, he was going after Strange a third time. I don't know how he's getting through though; Strange knows his face by now, knows he's a meddlesome guy. Unless they went in by force..."

Her words trailed off, but her eyes suddenly had a brilliant twinkle. Butch could see that whatever it was Sylvia had been pondering on for the last few days had suddenly clicked into place.

"I'll see you later." She said suddenly, turning on her heel and walking out of the room.

"Nice talking to you!" Butch called after her, then turned to Tabitha who was still sleeping in bed. "Between you and me, Tabby—she scares me more than you ever could."


	2. Jim Isn't Jim

Chapter 2: Jim Isn't Jim

* * *

Harvey Bullock waited for the Strike Force to go through the gate of Arkham Asylum, and retrieve Jim Gordon. It was almost noon, and Jim hadn't checked in at the time he said he would, and dealing with Strange and whatever Frankensteins the doc had been creating, Harvey imagined the worst.

At first, Harvey had considered calling Sylvia, to bring her in on it.

Now, he was happy he hadn't: Jim was MIA. Boy, would Sylvia tear him a new asshole if she ever found out that Harvey, the acting captain of the GCPD, allowed her brother to walk in and get captured like a bait on a hook. Unwilling to suffer the consequences, Harvey ordered the Strike Force to unleash hell on the Arkham Asylum gate, that was until a voice called out.

" _STAND DOWN_!"

Harvey looked at the walkie-talkie as though he hadn't heard it right.

" _Stand down, officers_!" Jim's voice was heard. " _Stand down. All clear._ "

"All clear?" Harvey repeated incredulously.

" _Yeah, all clear. Sorry to waste your time, Hoss. How about a ride back to HQ?_ "

Harvey wasn't exactly sure just what the hell was happening over there, but he figured he'd find out when Jim came back. When the doors opened, he half-expected that to be him, but he let out a low, painful groan when Sylvia came barging through, loudly stomping up the stairs and standing in front of Harvey, who forced his lips into a half-convincing smile.

"Hey, Liv." He said with less enthusiasm.

"Where's Jim?" She questioned.

"That's… _That_ is a reasonable inquiry."

Sylvia blinked: "What the fuck is wrong with you? Where is he?"

"He's out...and about. How are you doing, Liv? You look good!"

"You're acting weird." Sylvia noted; she looked around, then back at him: "Where's Jim, Harvey? Is he at Arkham?"

"Well, I mean, he _was_."

"What the fuck do you mean by 'was'? Did you seriously let him go in alone?"

"No, _no_ , I didn't." Harvey replied, stepping away from his desk and rounding it to meet her in the center. "Liv, as much as I love talking to you, I'm afraid that this isn't the best time."

"Is it not?"

"Frankly, no."

"Well, _frankly_ , Harvey, I haven't heard from Jim all day. And I know you and him are still trying to get through to Strange. And I don't see him here, so—" Sylvia stopped talking as the doors opened; both she and Harvey saw Jim Gordon strolling in with the other officers of the Strike Force.

Curious to the both of them, they found his 'stroll' a bit out of character, but otherwise, he appeared unharmed. And that suited both of them.

"Jim!" Harvey called, running down the stairs to meet his partner.

Jim curiously looked at him as though he'd never seen Harvey before. Then something seemed to click; he pointed, "Harvey Bullock! Hey, _Harv_!"

Sylvia raised her eyebrows and let out a low whistle. Either Jim had been drinking some heavy booze on his way over here or he was having a time and a half. She casually walked down the stairs, meeting the two detectives halfway.

"Strange is clean?" Harvey questioned, disbelieving. "What happened?"

"Dead end," Jim answered.

"'Dead end'? What do you mean 'dead end'?"

"He's connected."

"So is my mechanic. Who isn't these days?"

"He's connected to people we can't cross." Jim emphasized.

"Like who?"

"You don't want to know. Trust me."

Harvey and Sylvia alike observed Jim. He was abnormally pale; perspiration dotted the lines of his forehead.

"You all right? You look like a sack of fish."

"A small catch of the flu, maybe."

"Well, keep your distance. I'm getting laid this weekend, fingers crossed." Harvey said mischievously, crossing his fingers indicatively, and taking Sylvia's arm. "Come on, Liv—I've got something to show you."

"Does it pertain to you getting laid? If that's the case, I'm fairly certain I don't want to see."

"I'm flattered," Harvey said, smirking. "But that's not it."

"Well, you're flattered, I'm relieved—win-win." Sylvia said, looking at Jim for a second. She approached and he looked her up and down…oddly enough. "Are you sure you're okay, Jimmy?"

A small smile twisted the corner of his mouth as he said, "Never better, Kitten."

Sylvia gave him a look of 'what the fuck'. Then again, she was just happy he was alive and not having been turned into one of Strange's monsters. His overall appearance seemed unharmed, so at least he hadn't been tortured. Still…

"Strange didn't do anything to you, did he? Like psychologically?" Sylvia asked gingerly. She put her hand over his forehead, feeling his temperature.

"Not at all." Jim said, overdramatizing his answer with a large, shit-eating grin.

Frankly, it creeped her out.

"Did he drug you?"

"Why do you ask?"

"You're just…you're acting really weird." To prove a point, she looked _him_ up and down, trying to guess why he seemed so off-putting. Aside from being _way_ too happy.

"No drugs, no hugs, nothing in between," Jim appeased, smiling once more.

" _Liv_ …." Harvey said, popping in again.

"I'm coming, I'm coming…." Sylvia reassured. She touched Jim's shoulder; he looked happy about that. "I'll come back and check on you, okay?"

"Sure thing, sure thing!" Jim responded enthusiastically. "Anything you want."

"Riiiight…." Sylvia returned, looking at him with narrowed eyes.

She didn't really want to give him another moment to respond with something else that might goad her suspicions; after all, Harvey had something important to show her.

She followed Harvey into what would have been Captain Barnes' office. In some ways, Barnes was still the captain. But the guy was still in the hospital with a badly stabbed thigh, and Harvey seemed to take up the captain's hat pretty well.

"Look at this." Harvey handed her the latest issue of _Gotham Gazette_ with the news headline that read ' _ **Former Mayor Dead, Alive, Dead again**_ '.

"I could have come up with a better title for a heading, but I applaud the writer's humor."

"Hardy-har-har," Harvey chortled, taking the paper and holding it up. "Read the article."

"I'm not reading the _entire_ article."

"Paragraph six, first line."

Sylvia glanced, counted and read, "'GCPD saves Gotham from tyrannical, undead former Mayor, Theo Galavan.'….

"Pretty good, right?"

"That would be pretty good…if it was _true_."

"It _is_ true."

"As according to whom?" Sylvia asked, sitting in the arm chair directly opposite of Barnes' desk; Harvey sat behind it, smiling in spite of himself. "If my memory serves me correctly, Galavan was blown to bits by Butch Gilzean, who was led to the location by Oz. The papers should be thanking _them_."

"Gilzean…." Harvey laughed. "That guy is as useless as a fly trap in a fire."

"What the fuck does that even mean?"

"I don't know…I heard one of the younger officers use it and I thought it sounded pretty clever."

"You like the article because it gives credit to the GCPD."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"You never cared if the police got credit for anything; you couldn't even summon a _little_ pride in doing what you do," Sylvia reminded, crossing one leg over the other. Knowingly, she sneered, "It's because you're the acting captain now, isn't it? The GCPD does something, makes you look good, so you wanna take credit for it."

"I'm _the_ Captain. And you'll do well to remember that."

"If the city gave you the key, you'd turn it in a second, wouldn't you?"

"Without hesitation, Little Sister."

Sylvia rolled her eyes dramatically to the ceiling: "I shouldn't be so surprised."

"Who peed in your cereal this morning? Normally, you're pretty easily amused."

"Normally, I am."

"So?" He waved his hand to her, trying to get more information. "Tell big brother Harvey what's wrong. How far do we go back?"

"Too far back."

"Got the wise cracks coming like firecrackers. So, what's eating you?"

"Prior to coming here, nothing really. But..." She hesitated but she glanced outside the window of the door, watching Jim look around as though he'd never been inside the building before.

"You're worried about Jimbo?"

"More than I care to admit."

"Well, there's a reason we call you 'Little Sister' around here. You're his little sister. I imagine you're always worried about him."

"More than usual, I mean. He's acting weird."

"He just got back from Arkham Asylum. You'd be acting weird too…."

"I've _been_ in Arkham, _several_ times—as a guest. I've never acted weird coming out."

"Maybe it's because you talk to a lot of crazies, you're immune to it."

"Pardon?"

Harvey snickered, "Come on, Liv. I _know_ you've been to Arkham, talking to that traitor. How _is_ Nygma? How's he doing?"

"You're more than welcome to poke fun when I have the patience, but right now, I don't." Sylvia said callously.

"Come _on_ , Liv. He _framed_ Jim. I figured after someone did that, you wouldn't spare a minute on them."

"Normally, I wouldn't."

"You got a soft spot for the creep, don't you?"

Sylvia gave him a sour look.

"Don't you fucking pull that kind of hypocrisy on me, especially you above all people. **You** had a thing for _Fish_."

"Yeah, well, that was Fish. We're talking about a guy who likes to talk in riddles—literally—and he killed a brother of ours. Remember Pinkney?"

"I don't, as a matter of fact. He was one of _yours_ , and I can understand the animosity you have for Ed but—"

"—What do you see in him?" Harvey interrupted coldly.

"He's got a lot of potential."

"So does a spot of bacteria on my bathroom floor, but I'm not gonna talk it up like it's all that and a bag of chips."

"You never gave him enough credit."

"Why would I? He murdered one of our brothers, and he put _your_ brother—your real brother—in jail for a crime _you_ committed."

"I know the fucking facts!"

"So why keep visiting that moron—"

"—He's not a fucking moron—"

"—He's a waste of your time—"

"—A waste of your time, but not a waste of _mine_!" Sylvia snapped, standing to her feet so quickly that the chair she'd once occupied had scooted back so hard, the legs had scratched the wooden floor.

Harvey looked up at her, surprised by the outburst of passion. Granted, it might not have been an outburst; her voice had started creeping up in volume, and he'd knowingly hit a nerve.

"You think you have every fucking person figured out, well, you don't." Sylvia said harshly. "If anything, you—and every fucking person in this goddamn building—are the reason Ed ended up the way he did. You undermined every single task he performed, and you've more than once called him a moron."

"I actually only called him a 'dummy'."

"Same fucking thing."

Harvey stood.

"You need to calm yourself down, Liv. What are people going to think if you start defending every wacko, crazy nut job?"

"I don't defend every nut job around here."

"You defend Penguin—"

"—He's my husband—"

"—You're still friendly with Barbara—"

"—Her getting committed isn't relevant to—"

"—And now you're trying to defend Nygma. What does that sound like to you?"

Sylvia shot him a glare worthy of execution as she said through forced calm, "You want to put people down because they don't fit your idea of 'sanity'. Personally, I see more to them—Oswald, Ed, Barbara—they have all potential that _your_ people _consistently_ choose to overlook. That'll be your downfall."

"Mm-hmm…..Mm-hmm, let me ask you this." He hooked his thumbs into the belt loops of his pants. "What's your relationship with Ed these days? You know, aside from visiting him in Arkham, and all?"

"What the fuck are you getting at?"

"I mean, you talked to him each time you came to the station. Jim even told me that—for a second—you had something of a couple's date with them."

"It wasn't a couple's date. It was Jim and Lee, and Kristen and Ed."

"Ah, right…Kringle. Now _there's_ a jewel."

"I'm not talking about that right now."

"Well, I am." Harvey debated, smiling. "You and Kristen Kringle didn't get along, I hear."

"She didn't care for my line of work."

"Yeah, I imagine overlooking murders and under-the-desk jobs might have been a little traumatizing for a records custodian."

Sylvia crossed her arms defensively: "Fine. I didn't care for her. But not without reason."

"Why didn't you like her?"

"Am I on trial?"

"Nah." Harvey said, waving his hand. "I just want to know more about you."

"I think you know enough."

"You know what. I really don't think I do."

"You want some satisfaction?"

"What have we been discussing this entire time, huh?"

"Fine. Here it is. I didn't like her so much because she wanted to see one side of Ed, a sliver of it. She wasn't interested in him until those jackasses she was carrying a thing for suddenly vanished. _Then_ she notices him."

"That's another thing," Harvey speculated.

"What other thing?"

"People vanishing. One officer in particular, actually. Officer Dougherty, I mean."

"Yet another pretentious ass."

"Is that all?"

"What else is there?"

Harvey looked at her for a long moment. He leaned over the desk, hands balancing his weight.

"Personally, I'm starting to wonder whether or not you _knew_ Kristen Kringle was dead before the rest of us did. In fact, I can almost bet on it. You _knew_ Kristen was gone, and you _knew_ Officer Dougherty was MIA before the rest of us. I bet my _career_ that Ed told you every little detail. Being his friend and everything, you coulda taken it to your grave. Am I right?"

Sylvia mirrored him, her hands on the desk as well.

"Don't go asking questions if you already know the fucking answers, Harv. It's fucking condescending." She warned.

Harvey smirked.

"You like Nygma, don't you?"

"Of course, I do. He's my friend."

"Even after he framed Jim?"

"Not right after, but yes."

"That's pathetic."

Sylvia shrugged.

"You're probably right. But" Sylvia picked the newspaper up. "…so is pretending that the GCPD got rid of Galavan when, really, you had to rely on a fucking skell to do the job _for_ you."

"Touche." Harvey chuckled, although the smile didn't reach his eyes.

Sylvia smiled back, but it mirrored the same as his.

They backed off on the subject, leaving the office and heading up to the top of the staircase where Jim was sitting as his own desk, drinking a cherry slushy. Sylvia sat on Harvey's desk, looking over different case files that he had been working on.

"What's this one?" Sylvia asked, lifting one of the folders and looking through it briefly.

"Small burglary, someone robbed a pharmacy. Know the guy?"

"You think I know every skell?"

"I say you know about 90% of them."

"I say you're right." Sylvia agreed. She pointed to the file's name. "He works on the docks as a fisherman. He was regularly paid by Maroni, back when the Don was still alive, anyway. Back then, he was pulling about five-grand worth of coke that was shipped between Albuquerque and Gotham. At this point in time, I doubt he's employed anywhere, probably living in the fucking street."

"And you didn't bother to tell Jim and me?" Harvey asked, gesturing to her brother and himself. "That would have been one less skell to worry about."

" _Are_ you worried about him?"

"Nah, not really."

"Then why would I have told you?"

"She's got a point there," Jim chimed in, winking at her.

Sylvia and Harvey exchanged glances, but let that odd gesture go.

"What about this one?" Harvey said, taking a folder from the bottom of the pile and handing it to her. "This guy has been on our list ever since Barnes took the reins."

"'Jack Marson'." Sylvia said, reading the file's name.

"Sound familiar?" Jim asked.

"Not really. If he's a criminal, he's a small one. Or he's just starting. I don't know anyone by that name."

"He robbed a few banks," Harvey informed. "Got a lot of the bankers pissed."

"Why?"

"He robbed _their_ banks. Didn't rob the normal ones."

"We have _normal_ banks?" Sylvia mused.

"The lesser known banks were robbed—not the good ones like Gotham Statutes."

"Any evidence linking it to him?"

"Plenty. Fingerprints, DNA, photos—"

"So what's holding you back, bud?" Sylvia asked, smirking at Harvey. "You've got the evidence—Barnes should've been on this one like a bump on a log."

"We can't find the creep."

"What does he look like?"

Harvey gave a photo to Sylvia, who looked it over. It was black and white, grainy. A typical stock image that could be found on any nanny cam.

"You can't find Jack Marson, because Jack Marson isn't anybody. It's an Alias." She explained, tossing the photo on the desk.

"How do you know? What's his real name?"

"This picture that you have is of Drake Anderson. The fucker recently got a nose job, and he looks a little more different. Different hair cut, different eye contacts—a little cosmetic surgery on the cheekbones…."

"Drake Anderson?" repeated Harvey. "The Anderson's son? The Family?"

"The same. But you won't find him."

"Yeah, because he's dead."

"Yep." Sylvia chirped with a broad smile.

"You killed him, didn't you?"

"Pass GO and collect two-hundred dollars."

Jim looked at her curiously.

It was odd though. Instead of a disapproving shake of the head as Sylvia had expected, Jim looked more or less intrigued, like he was just hearing of Sylvia's long list of crimes for the first time, and he appeared impressed. And how little surprised Harvey appeared to be by Sylvia's lackadaisical attitude of committing such a crime.

"I figured _you_ would go after Anderson," Harvey said, rolling his eyes. "Not that I don't blame you. I never liked him."

"He was a pain in the ass."

"So was Falcone, but I didn't see you go after him."

"He was a different kind of a pain in the ass." Sylvia reminisced. "At least he had some manners."

"Yeah, now we have different pains." Harvey sighed.

"Like Strange."

"Yeah, like Strange." Harvey said, leaning forward at his desk. "Which makes me wonder, Jim. These people to whom Strange is connected, they must have been pretty _heavy_ to make **you** back off, huh?"

"Oh, they're heavy," Jim reassured, flashing Sylvia a crooked smile. Like he was trying to impress her.

"I don't want anything _dangerous_. I just want to be titillated."

"Oh sure," Sylvia mused. " _Everyone_ wants to be titillated."

"Well, not everyone can be immersed in danger like you, Liv."

"I'm not immersed; I'm thriving."

"Like a weed."

"Careful, Harv."

Harvey smirked when Sylvia's tone bordered on dangerous but the small smile she sent him was enough to give him some satisfaction. Knowing that the conversation they had prior to this one had not dampened Sylvia and Harvey's regular back-and-forth was more than reassuring.

"Remember," Harvey said to Jim, "when you called me from the hospital, that time when you had Falcone on the gurney."

"…How could I forget?"

"Remember what I told you? Remember what I said?"

"…I forget…" Jim said seriously, although Harvey seemed gather that was a joke.

"Ha-ha, very funny."

Then something unprecedented happened.

"Gordon!"

Sylvia startled, hearing Alfred's voice. She glanced to see the Wayne's butler running up the stairs, dressed dashingly as always, but looking worried.

"You're back!" He said quickly. "What happened? Where's Master Bruce? Where's Lucius?" His voice rose in volume, as well as concern: " _Have you seen them? Where_ _ **are**_ _they_!"

Sylvia glanced uncertainly between Harvey, who appeared confused, and Jim, who looked just as confused. And _that_ made Sylvia's suspicions return.

"Hey, Alfred, take it easy," Harvey assured.

" _Where are they_!"

As though Jim had gotten a social cue, he said promptly, "Alfred…relax. Master Bruce and Lucius are...uh…headed back to Wayne Manor."

"Well, that's a load of hot tosh for starters, isn't it?" Alfred retorted. "I just came back from there."

"What can I tell ya?" Jim said, shrugging. "Maybe they stopped for a snack or something."

Sylvia glanced between Harvey, who now appeared calm, to Alfred, whose world was seemingly crashing down around him, and to Jim, who seemed unaffected by any of it. Feeling like something was off was an understatement for Sylvia as she carefully observed Jim's mannerisms, highly suspecting that Jim was not acting like himself. Maybe Strange _had_ drugged him….

"So what about Strange?" Alfred demanded.

"It's complicated!" Jim responded.

"Well, then, go on! _What_!"

"Complicated _police_ business!"

Alfred stared at Jim as though he'd gone off his rocker. Harvey leaned into Alfred, muttering, "He's got the touch of the flu."

"I'll try calling the Manor…." Alfred suggested.

Harvey and Jim encouraged him to do so. Meanwhile, Sylvia glanced between them. When Alfred left, Sylvia turned to the two detectives.

"What does Bruce have to do with anything?" Sylvia asked Jim.

"Eh….kids today…."

"That's not a satisfying answer."

"Well, it's an answer." Jim said, winking at her.

"You're insufferable. I can't talk to you when you're like this."

"Well, there's other stuff we can do that doesn't involve _talking_." Jim suggested, smirking at her.

She stared at him. So did Harvey.

"What the _hell_ is wrong with you?" Sylvia questioned, stepping away from him. "You're acting so… _weird_."

"The flu will do that." Harvey offered. "One time, my aunt had the flu and she couldn't even remember who I was—she thought I was an old boyfriend. Now, _that_ was an awkward Christmas."

"Ugh, I don't want to know that!" Sylvia scolded. "This is not the time for jokes, Harvey."

"Calm down, Sugar bean." Jim said gently. "This is the _perfect_ time for jokes. People get all stressed in this place; it doesn't really help matters, you know."

"I can't fucking talk to him," Sylvia said irritably. "I'm going to check on Alfred. See if I can't find out what's going on. Harvey, don't you let him out of your sight, okay?"

"Sure thing, Liv."

Sylvia strode away, rolling her eyes as Jim smiled needlessly on. She waited for Alfred to finish on the phone, watching him become tirelessly stressed as he hung up.

"Voicemail again," He groaned.

"What's going on, Alfred?"

"It's Master B."

"And?"

"And what?"

"I need more than that to go on," Sylvia encouraged.

"Didn't Gordon tell you?"

"Tell me _what_?"

"I guess he didn't."

"Didn't tell me _what_!" She goaded. "Alfred, what the _fuck_ is going on?"

"What do you think is going on?"

"I don't fucking know! That's why I _asked_!"

Alfred seemed to realize that Sylvia wasn't in the loop on any event that was being held so Alfred took her arm, pulled her to the wayside, out of ear shot of anyone else.

"Bruce, Lucius, Gordon—all of them infiltrated Arkham," Alfred explained.

"All three of them? How?"

"Well, it's a delicate plan."

"Yeah, pretty fucking fragile."

"Let me finish, will you?"

"Do it quickly." Sylvia said, rushing him.

"They were going to find out what Strange was hiding, how Strange—ultimately, they wanted to find more evidence against his wrongdoings. Strange is 'The Philosopher', this man who ordered the hit on Martha and Thomas Wayne."

"Okay, I got that much."

"And they went in. But, you see, Gordon is out and about, but I can't find Bruce or Lucius."

"Lucius is the black fellow, right?"

"Correct, Ma'am."

"So Jim is out of the Asylum, but you think Bruce and Lucius are still in there?"

"I think Strange got him."

"Strange is becoming a fucking thorn in my craw hole." Sylvia muttered vehemently.

Alfred blinked, but said encouragingly, "I do believe that Strange has him."

"Let's tell Jim and Harvey, maybe they can send a few people to investigate." Sylvia suggested, taking Alfred's hand and pulling him with her to Harvey, who looked at them expectantly.

"I tried calling the manor a hundred times," Alfred said, distressed. "Not a single word. I believe Strange has him. I'm positive."

"Holy crap," grunted Jim, strolling past Alfred and standing beside Harvey. "Are you _still_ here? I told you a thousand times, Strange is clean."

"You in charge of that, are you?" Alfred scolded, gesturing to Jim as he spoke to Harvey.

"It's strange though, isn't it?" Harvey contemplated aloud. "Strange that they're MIA."

"Ha. 'Strange'…." Jim giggled. "That's funny. 'Strange'."

"Funny!" Alfred exclaimed. " _Funny_!"

Harvey held out a hand, lowering it to goad Alfred into some sort of calmness (not that it helped) and said thoughtfully, "Maybe I should send the Strike Force back into Arkham….have a little look-see."

"No, no, no!" Jim said quickly. "You don't want to do that. Bad idea. Trust me. Terrible idea." Appealing to Harvey's friendship, he said, "How long have you known me?"

"Well, you got a point. I mean, I guess if you're good, I'm good too."

"I don't know who's got to you, Gordon," Alfred said darkly. "But you're just...just _weird_."

"That's what I think too." Sylvia noted aloud, agreeing with Alfred. "Jimmy, you're not acting like yourself at all."

"I'm acting like myself, all right." Jim reassured. "Trust me…."

"Trust _you_?" Sylvia questioned. "You go MIA for several hours, and you don't even ask me to come along?"

"Why would I ask you?"

"'Why would you ask me'?" Sylvia repeated incredulously. "Are you fucking kidding me? I'm the one that got you looking in the right fucking direction—remember, going after The Lady and her associates? Finding out Strange was 'The Philosopher', all of that? And going after Strange, finding out what his seedy plots entail—that's not something you'd want me in on? _Please_."

Jim stuffed his hand in his pockets, had a thoughtful expression cross his face for a second before he said with a smirk, "I could think of a lot of places I'd like you to get in but Strange's castle ain't one of them, doll."

"Why are you talking like that?" Sylvia questioned.

"Talking like what?"

"That innuendo."

"Come on, Sugar bean. You know I'm just messing with you," Jim said quickly after realizing he had hit a sore spot.

But that's just it, wasn't it? Jim _never_ spoke to her like that. The very idea of anything sexual associating with Sylvia was too taboo to him. At least to her real brother. This man in front of her didn't seem like him at all. Not since he had come out of Arkham.

"'Sugar bean'?" She repeated. "'Doll'? You've never called me that."

"What can I tell ya? I like coming up with pet names for you."

"Well, I don't like it. And—if you haven't realized it, _James—_ I'm your sister. I'm not your fucking 'pet'."

Harvey and Alfred glanced at one another uncomfortably.

A moment passed.

She said carefully, "Jim."

"Yes?"

"What _do_ you call me?"

"Hmm?"

"My nickname."

"He knows what he calls you," Harvey pointed out. "Sounds a little off asking him to—"

"I'm testing something, Harv. _So shut it._ " Sylvia snapped.

Harvey held up his hands and backed off.

She looked at Jim seriously.

"Jimmy…What do you call me?"

"Um…."

"Vee. You call me 'Vee'. Not 'Doll'. And _definitely_ not 'Sugar Bean'."

"Oh right…right…." Jim said, smirking. "The nickname, yeah. You're 'Vee'."

"Right." She looked at him oddly, adding, "What the fuck has gotten into you?"

Jim leaned forward.

"I like calling you 'Vee'. Tell me, sweet thing, what _other_ names do I call you, hm?"

"Jim. I love you," Sylvia reassured. "And I can understand that Strange messed with you or something, and I can understand _all_ of that. But if you continue to talk to me like that, I'm going to kick you hard enough between your legs that your balls will retreat so far up into your prostate that not even your proctologist will find them."

"Ooh, _kinky_." Jim purred.

Harvey and Alfred backed up a little, certain that this man was not Jim Gordon now. Or at least, fairly certain that Jim was under more than just the flu. Maybe Strange had given him drugs.

Her threat completely flew over Jim's head; in fact, it had spurred him on. He moved towards Sylvia and he kissed her right on the mouth. She was so surprised by it, she hadn't reacted—even when his tongue slipped inside her mouth. When the surprise quickly wore off, Sylvia grabbed both of Jim's shoulders and kneed him so hard in the groin that Jim squealed like a pig. He straightened only for Sylvia to punch him hard in the face.

When she did, Jim looked back at her. Or at least, half his face could. The other half looked as though it had been flattened with a rolling pin. At that moment, the Strike Force attacked him, tackled, and handcuffed him.

"Whoever you are, you're under arrest—"

Sylvia rubbed her face, grabbed a bottle of Listerine sitting on Alvarez' desk and gurgled half of it before spitting it out.

"What the hell—" Harvey began, shocked.

Sylvia rubbed her mouth with the back of her hand: "We'll talk about this later. We have go to back to Arkham!"

"Strike Force!" Harvey gathered. "We're going back!"

Strike Force started peeling out the door, all shouting, "GET JIM! GET JIM!" One of them said, "I can't believe that just happened!"

Alfred looked worriedly at Sylvia.

She said hastily, "Come on!"

"Where exactly are we going?" Alfred demanded as she grabbed his wrist and pulled him out.

"To find Bruce! We'll take my car."

"We'll take mine, it's faster!"

"Fine. But I'm driving."

"Wait, wait—"

"Alfred—"

"It's a stick shift!" Alfred cautioned.

"So! I can drive a stick. Let's _go!_ "

"Oh…All right then!" Alfred said, getting into the passenger seat.

They buckled in and shot out of the parking lot before revving it up, speeding towards Arkham.

"I imagine that you're going to have to undergo plenty of therapy after that monstrosity," Alfred said nervously as he held onto the dash board as Sylvia zipped through four lanes of traffic.

"Please." Sylvia said, rolling her eyes. "That's not the first time I've felt violated. I've endured more humility watching the first Twilight movie."

"Well," Alfred coughed…And he didn't know what else to say after that.


	3. Stuck In An Elevator

Chapter Three: Stuck In An Elevator

* * *

Alfred and Sylvia pushed the car doors open after the vehicle had come to a jolting halt. While she appeared in good health, Alfred looked two shades duller as though he'd just walked straight out of a horror movie.

"Are you okay, Alfred?"

"Fine, fine…Did anyone teach you how to drive?" Alfred remarked, holding his chest where his heart was no doubt beating five times as fast prior to getting into the car with her. "You damn near got us killed, you did!"

"You're alive, aren't you?" Sylvia responded smartly, smirking at him. "Besides, look around you. The police aren't even here—they're probably _just_ getting on the 90 Highway. You should be thanking me!"

"Never mind that." He lifted his eyes to Arkham. "How are we getting in there? There must be _a multitude_ of guards."

"Guards are human."

"Your point being what exactly?"

Sylvia leaned into the window of the passenger seat, opened the glove compartment and her lips curled into a satisfied smile as she took two hand guns out, checking to make sure they were loaded before tossing Alfred one; he caught it on the dime.

"According to Jim, you were in the military," Sylvia said, meeting him in front of the car. "I'm assuming that being a butler hasn't deteriorated those Special Forces skills of yours?"

Alfred smiled at her proudly: "I should say they haven't."

"Good to hear. This is what's going to happen…."

"Are you a strategist?"

"I'd like to think I am. Or did _you_ want to lead this thing?"

"I say I have better strategy than you. I did more than just fight in the military—I was part of the British SAS."

"Fine, _you're_ the expert. But let me ask you this question, would you?"

"Sure…."

"Have you ever _been_ in Arkham?" Sylvia questioned, knowing the answer would be a loud, resounding 'no'. "And if you ever have, have you stepped further than a desk or an office, or the fucking waiting room per chance?"

Obviously insulted by her inquiry—more insulted by her tone than anything, Alfred shifted in his stance uncomfortably.

"That's what I thought," Sylvia sneered. "That covers it: you're the British SAS, and I've been in Arkham more than once."

"No doubt visiting that husband of yours."

"Yes, and on a few other occasions. Before we go in guns blazing, a proper strategist would try talking their way in, wouldn't you agree?"

"Talk your way in? _You_?" Alfred repeated with a scoff. "You're not exactly dressed like a business woman, now, are you? People in Gotham _know_ who you are, what kind of people you're associated with. And I am fairly certain that Strange's guards are not going to let you just stroll right in."

Sylvia smirked: "You know I didn't have to _bring_ you with me, right?"

"I could agree, but how does that tie in with what we're talking about?"

She sighed with a roll of her eyes, and from the inside of her boots, she took out Harvey Bullocks' handcuffs.

"How did you—when did you snag those?" Alfred asked incredulously.

"I also have the key." She hummed, lifting the little thing and waving it gingerly in front of him. "This is what's going to happen, Jeeves. The fact is, you're right—by now, people know who I am, what I do, and the type of people I associate myself with. Odds of me walking in like I am some sort of inspector won't fly too quickly—I'm pretty sure that's how Fox and Bruce got in, right?"

Alfred nodded.

"So, having a repeat of that scenario is going to look downright suspicious," Sylvia mused, smirking. "So, this is the scenario…." (She threw Alfred the cuffs, and he took them, albeit with shock and uncertainty.) "When we get in, the first guard you see, you're going to disarm them, undress them, and you'll be the correctional guard. You're a fit fellow, so you should be able to fit into any of the guards' uniforms, I suspect?"

Alfred smiled at the compliment: "All right. That's easy enough. What about you?"

"I'm the sad, poor little patient that you'll be escorting." Sylvia returned, holding her wrists together and out for Alfred to restrain. "People assume I'm bat shit crazy anyway, so this role fits me like a glove."

"You want me to slap the 'cuffs on you, is that it?"

"That's why I brought the key."

"Fine then." Alfred acknowledged.

He didn't 'slap' the cuffs on her as he mentioned, but gently pulled the links together until they clicked once or twice. His face was back to its natural color, but Sylvia noticed that his cheeks blushed a soft shade of pink.

"Are you alright, there, Mr. Pennyworth?"

"I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

"No reason. You just look like a shy little boy right now."

"Well, handcuffing a woman isn't—I should say I haven't—that's to say that I wouldn't—"

"So quickly embarrassed!" Sylvia chuckled. "You make it _too_ easy, Alfred."

The Butler gave her another disgruntled look, although he seemed pacified once Sylvia continued on with the scenario.

"We'll go in, you'll talk to the guards at the front desk," Sylvia said, as she and Alfred strode together towards the hospital. "Once inside, you'll take off the hand cuffs and from there on out, you'll follow me. This hospital is a fucking maze; so please, try to keep up."

"Do you make a habit of using that condescending tone?" Alfred questioned, looking over his shoulder at her. "It's a little irritating, mind you."

"Is it? I barely noticed."

"The attitude isn't called for either, Missy."

"'Missy'," Sylvia repeated with a delighted smirk. "Next you'll be calling me 'Miss Frumpkin'."

"Would that annoy you?"

"I've been called worse."

"I'm sure you have."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Alfred sighed, "Let's just go in and find Master Bruce, please?"

"What do you think we're doing?"

She stepped to the side, a few spaces between them as they approached the large doors of the hospital. A guard stood just in front of them, armed with a radio, a flash light on his belt, and a rifle in his hands. Once he saw them, his barrel was poised to shoot. Alfred was quicker than Sylvia had imagined him to be; before the guard could call off the location and appearance of the two suspects, he was already on the ground, knocked unconscious.

Alfred adjusted his vest, rolling up his sleeves to the elbows, and said to Sylvia, "See? Now _that's_ how you properly disarm a guard."

"Disarming Correctional Officers 101."

"There's that condescending tone again."

"It keeps me bright in spirits, just let me be."

"Sarcastic remarks aside, I think you're just trying to hide the fact that you're scared." Alfred noted, bending down at the knee to acquire the guard's uniform.

He didn't strip down to nothing; not only would that have been time consuming, but he wasn't about to show his bits and pieces to a woman as fun-poking as Sylvia Cobblepot. Alfred put the clothes over his, grabbed the radio and flashlight, placing both on the holster belt seated on the waistband of his pants, and took the rifle as well.

"Fat lot of good this antique would have done." Alfred muttered under his breath.

"No bullets?"

"Hardly any. There's just enough for one shot."

"Might as well be an empty magazine."

"Strange doesn't look after his people well enough."

"Strange isn't responsible for stocking and refurnishing Arkham's employees with weapons and ammunition. If you want to complain to someone about how well they're taken care of, that's Human Resources."

"Know all of that, do you?" Alfred said, getting to his feet and straightened his uniform in general.

Sylvia held up her cuffed wrists in order to poke her temples saying smartly, "Knowledge is power, my dear Alfred."

"It's also quite the burden."

"Well, I can't argue with that."

"Should we be heading in now?"

"Any time you're ready; I've been waiting on _you_."

"You're a bit of a spitfire, aren't you, Miss?"

"As fiery as they come, darling."

He took her by the bicep of her left arm, pulling her inside through the hospital doors as a correctional officer would roughly do so.

Sylvia's boot heels clicked on the gray, cold tiles. It was dark and dingy through the halls, unwelcoming. The combination of decontamination sprays, perfume, and carpet deodorants made up an acrid odor, and it curled their noses as they strolled through the corridor.

"The desk will be on the left," Sylvia muttered. So quietly she'd spoken, but even then there seemed to be an echo.

"This place can certainly make anyone uncomfortable."

"Yeah, not exactly a place any human should inhabit on a regular basis."

"I'm certain this would be a H&R complaint."

Sylvia jested, "I know where that office is too."

"Are they taking applications?"

"What, you don't like being a butler anymore?"

"I'm more than happy to be Master B's butler, but I think any person would feel the need to spiffy this place up a bit."

"The pay would be better."

"How much?"

Sylvia chuckled, "About five dollars more, if not less."

"That's still better than what I make in a week."

"Well, at least your housing is taken care of, and your company isn't too bad either."

"You have a point there."

She stepped over an application that had been halfway filled out until it had been thrown on the floor.

"Oh look, someone did half the work for you." Sylvia poked fun.

"Not interested."

"You get weekends off."

"Oh, fantastic, _that's_ convinced me. Where do I sign?" Alfred said sardonically.

"Mm-hmm, _now_ who's being sarcastic."

"You're a cheeky one, aren't you?"

"Shut up, Alfred—we're coming up to the window."

Sure as she was, Alfred turned the corner and saw a square. The square was a window of impenetrable glass with a smaller rectangle of an opening so files and folders could be slipped through to either party inside or outside of aforementioned window. Behind it was a guard who wore the same uniform Alfred currently dubbed.

The guard lifted his eyes when they'd entered his peripheral; with a dull look and a flat tone, he said, "How's it going?"

In order not to attract any attention to themselves, Alfred spoke in an effortless American accent, saying, "Not too bad. You, buddy?"

Sylvia's eyebrow cocked upwards, obviously humored by Alfred's attempt to be like the rest of them. After hearing his British accent for the longest time and his overbearing sophistication, Sylvia couldn't hear anything more comical than Alfred saying the word 'buddy'.

"Who's this?" The guard questioned, smiling knowingly at Sylvia. "She's a beautiful specimen if I ever saw one."

"Well, she's a prisoner."

"She's not one of ours."

"Remember every pathetic skell in this place, do you?" Alfred questioned.

"Most of these morons, I could forget. But this one….no, I would remember her."

He tapped the eraser head of his pencil on the glass, and Sylvia eyed him dangerously.

"What's your name, Prisoner?"

"You _know_ who I am." She retorted.

"People call you 'Lark'. Why is that, I wonder?"

"I sing and dance."

"Larks are known for their song. Perhaps we should test it out one day?"

"You?" She said skeptically. "I couldn't spare a second."

Alfred clenched his hand around Sylvia's arm and said forcefully, "That's enough from _you_."

Satisfied with Alfred's response to the situation, the guard sighed, pushed a button, and said, "Well, she'll warm up to us, I imagine. Most of them do. If not, we can always just put her in the chair and watch her convulse in the damn thing. A beautiful thing like her—I would trade two paychecks to see _that_ show."

"That's not saying much," Alfred said with a forced smile. "Considering our paychecks aren't much to begin with, huh?"

The guard laughed, "Ha! You got a point there! Ha! Ha, ha, ha. Go on, man. The door's open."

Alfred cleared his throat, took Sylvia by the arm again and practically dragged her through the buzzed-open door. Once inside, he let go of her and also dropped his American accent. Sylvia lifted her wrists and quickly, as though he couldn't bear to see Sylvia in this prisoner status any longer, Alfred unlocked the cuffs and shook his head in disgust.

"What's wrong? You were great!"

"Yes. That, I was. But..." Alfred shuddered, meeting her gaze. "I despise it when I hear or see a man talk to a lady like that. Grinds my bloody nerves."

Sylvia patted his shoulder.

"It's amazing to me how you don't have a lady yourself with as well as you treat us. It's over though. So, let's proceed, hm?"

"Of course, yes. We should. We definitely should. Who knows what Strange is doing with poor Bruce." Alfred said, rubbing his hands together. He glanced at Sylvia's hand, which had been resting on his shoulder, comforting him, and realized that for that short period, the cuffs had made red rings around her wrists.

He took one of her hands and looked at it remorsefully.

"I'm terribly sorry about that," Alfred apologized.

"Please," She scoffed, taking her wrists from him and she rubbed them consolably. "This is nothing. I've been through a lot worse than this."

Alfred couldn't contemplate, or even imagine what those things were. Nor did he wish to think about it. It was plain to see that someone as beautiful as her would deal with a lot of catcalls and harassing comments, and that alone was a sinful thing.

The small conversation left a space for an awkward moment to settle, at least for the butler. Sylvia, on the other hand, smiled and she insisted that they move forward.

Sylvia hadn't changed since talking to Butch earlier that morning, making peace with a friend over Tabitha's coma state. She still wore the blood-red V neck blouse, fish net stockings, a knee-length black skirt, and black, heeled, knee-high laced up boots. Where she had tossed Alfred the gun so she could slip by the security like a newly admitted prisoner, she now carried it in her hand while Alfred stayed behind her, following her lead.

She wasn't lying when she said she knew Arkham.

She didn't look through any rooms or read any signs to get where she needed to be. Alfred followed with only three steps leading behind her, careful to look over his shoulder when he heard an unsettling noise. Then again, this was Arkham, wasn't it? Everything about the place was unsettling.

They'd have to take the elevator down though. They'd searched this floor, and there was no sign of Bruce, Fox, or Jim. Perhaps that was less troubling since there wasn't a sign of a struggle either.

"Care to make a wager?" Sylvia asked quietly as she moved into the elevator (Alfred insisted that she go in first.).

"Is that a joke?"

"Kind of." She sighed, and she punched the number for the floor below.

"In all honesty, I'm not in the mood for jokes."

"A riddle then?"

Alfred contemplated that, and said with a tone that could only be described as 'slightly humored', "Fine. One riddle."

"Do you _like_ riddles?"

"Is that the riddle?"

"No, that was a question. If you don't like them, I won't hurt your brain with one."

"And the condescension continues."

"It's my natural state of being, you might want to get used to it."

"Considering the reason behind it?"

"We might get stuck in the elevator. If you're ever stuck in an elevator, the best scenario is to be either stuck with someone you love or someone you hate."

"The question is which one am I," Alfred contemplated with a friendly smile.

"Sometimes, love and hate are frequently intertwined."

"I don't think so. Someone you hate can hurt you."

"So can a loved one. It's not the people who you despise that you have to watch out for. You expect them to hurt you. It's the people who pretend to love you."

"Speaking from experience?"

"More than one."

The elevator made a creaking sound, slowing to a stop at first. Then it continued and when it did, she and Alfred let out a relieved sigh.

"Come to think of it," Sylvia continued, "I…."

The elevator made another lurching sound. Followed by a jolt, big enough to make Sylvia and Alfred hold the rails lining the walls. They exchanged nervous glances. Sylvia quickly hit the button to their designation, but the light would come on then off, repeatedly. It was like the machine didn't know what the fuck was going on. Now neither did they.

"To think the city's money went to this bloody place." Alfred grumbled.

"We have Mayor James to thank for that."

"Oh, right, _that_ old git."

"I'll have a list of items to discuss with Human Resources after this."

"If we'd taken the stairs, we'd have been down there by now."

"Who knew the elevator would go belly up, though," Sylvia defended the two of them. "Granted, this thing has enough antiquity to be in a museum."

Another lurching sound echoed in the elevator shaft. It wasn't something to be relieved about, but it meant that the lift was trying to figure out what to do.

"How about that riddle?" Alfred asked unhappily.

"Oh, now you're just bored." She returned, smirking at him.

"Just have a go, will you?"

"Fine, then. What can run but never walks, has a mouth but never talks, has a head but never weeps, and has a bed but never sleeps?"

Alfred thought about it for a second, muttering, "Never walks…a mouth…..head but never weeps….a bed, but never sleeps…"

"Do you give up?"

"Give a man a second, would you!" Alfred snapped.

Sylvia raised her eyebrows and whistled low: "Quick to snap, old chap?"

Alfred continued to mumble to himself. After five minutes had passed, he said proudly, "I know the answer."

Sylvia gestured to him to go on.

"It's a river."

"Yes, it is."

"That was a little harder than I care to admit," He confessed.

"Well, with the situation that we're in," Sylvia consoled, "one can understand why it would be."

A moment of silence. Then….

"How did you manage to get involved with this?" Alfred asked, sitting on the floor of the elevator.

By now, since the air conditioning didn't seem to work, he'd taken off the officer's uniform and was back to appearing like Alfred, The Butler, instead of his other counterpart. In all honesty, Sylvia preferred that look on him more than the other.

She, too, sat on the ground, her legs outstretched and crossed at the ankle. Thoughtfully, she was twisting her wedding ring on her left hand, her eyes cast downward at nothing as she had been deep in thought. Now she was pulled out of her reverie by Alfred's question.

"Jim," Sylvia said as though his name explained every reason for her interference.

"Now, see, it's curious you say that," Alfred said, pointing to her.

"Why is it curious?"

"I've never seen a relationship more complicated than yours…where Gordon is concerned."

Sylvia laughed, "You don't know the half of it."

"Did he ask you to do this?"

"In not so many words."

"And how did he phrase it when he did ask?"

"He doesn't have to ask."

Alfred sent her a curious look, nodding as in acknowledgement to her response. Seeing that he was interested and because, frankly, they had nothing else going on for the moment, she indulged him.

"Jim and I have always been on and off," She said lightly. "Either we're close as twins or we're estranged to the point of hating each other. There's hardly a middle. But I won't turn away family when they need me most."

"I'm still surprised that you two are as close as you _are_." Alfred remarked. "From what I've seen anyway."

"You're talking about me being married to Oswald?"

"And many other things."

"Jim doesn't like it. Since he found out Oswald and I were together, he's always hated the idea of it. From openly coming out with the relationship, to being engaged, to getting married—Jim has dragged his feet every step of the way. I think he and Oz finally found some type of way of getting along."

"How does that work, now?" Alfred asked curiously. "You being the Underworld's Queen and, yet, you've been in on several GCPD investigations—not to mention the one regarding Master Bruce's parents. You told Gordon that you found out that Strange was 'The Philosopher', didn't you? By chance, how did you do that?"

Sylvia smiled.

"I can be very persuasive."

"I imagine so. You have all the money in the world, don't you?"

"Most of it, yes, but writing a check and waving it in someone's face doesn't always work," Sylvia reminded. "Like I told Jim—some people don't want or care for money. Some people just want to be acknowledged, seen as a human being, endure a nice, pleasant conversation, and be treated with equal respect."

"And what persuades you, if you don't mind me asking?" Alfred inquired calmly. "You don't seem the type to run towards a bank without a plan, and even so, you aren't so easily distracted, are you?"

"I'm actually very impulsive and compulsive, but I've had to grow a little since my husband had been incarcerated in this fucking place. Otherwise, you got me down to a science. You're right: I know what I want, I see what I want…Everything else is just wallpaper and background noises."

"So, what is it, then? What persuades you?"

"A little charm, a little class," Sylvia shrugged a a shoulder shyly. "Show me you have a brain, and I'll show you I have a sweet side. Despite my brutish mannerisms, I _am_ a woman when it comes down to it. Some may deny it but that's all a woman really wants, you know: to be respected as an equal but treated like the fair lady she is."

Alfred offered a genuine smile: "I suspect that's what Mr. Cobblepot did to earn your hand in marriage, wasn't it?"

"Well, that, and many other things."

"So what was in it for you to find out Strange was this 'Philosopher'."

"Jim asked for my help."

"And that's all it takes, is it?"

Sylvia stood to her feet.

"Jim and I may not always see eye-to-eye, but he knows that when he needs me, he can find me. And vice versa."

"He needs you a lot more than you need him." Alfred pointed out, standing as well.

"And he's admitted that in the past…" Sylvia paused, and said pointedly, "I also sought out the information to help you and Bruce."

"Is that a fact?"

"Yes, it is. Not just a fact, but the truth."

"You really care what's happened to him?"

"I care that his parents were murdered in a fucking alley," Sylvia said coolly. "I care that he was orphaned at a stage no child should ever be left alone. Personally, I could care less that my father died in a car crash—he and I never saw eye to eye—but if he was killed, you can bet your dollar that I _would_ find his murderers, and I would see them put to death _personally_."

Alfred crossed his arms, saying, "There's more to you than just corruption, obscenities, and paradoxes, isn't there, Mrs. Cobblepot?"

"Many children don't have parents, Alfred. There are more orphans than I can count. You're asking me if I'm doing all of this" (She gesticulated to the elevator as a whole) "because I care about Bruce Wayne? I'm not. In fact, if it wasn't for my brother, you and any other person related to Bruce could not find me or touch me with a thirty-five-and-a-half-foot pole."

Alfred frowned at that, but she continued:

"I have two separate personalities, mind you," Sylvia reassured. "There's the part of me that rules Gotham with an iron fist. That part of me is cold, sadistic, and—if I'm being honest—a complete fucking psychopath. But there's another part of me, and I find myself trying my hardest to forget it because that part of me is compassionate, open-minded, selfless, and empathetic to anyone who suffers or has suffered because someone was acting like a self-serving, loathsome excuse for a human being.

"That soft side of me is easily tricked, manipulated, and—as a result—has suffered multiple betrayals and pain. Because of that, it has slowly been deteriorating. I've been through enough that any person in Gotham wouldn't blame me if I just let the darker side take over. I've been sexually assaulted, harassed, and berated…betrayed by friends and allies….and—for a moment—the love of my life couldn't look me in the eye because of all the things I had done _for him_ , all the nitty gritty things. I go to sleep and relive every fucking nightmare that I have been through, and it damn near drives me fucking insane."

Alfred sighed softly, "What keeps you from breaking?"

Sylvia smiled.

"Remember what I said: there's people you hate, people you love—nothing in the middle?"

"Yes, in any case an elevator breaks down, which is what's happened, I think." Alfred pointed out, glancing at the blinking lights on the buttons.

"James, Oswald, Ed…." She continued, "you and Bruce Wayne even….you guys hold me down, keep me from floating away. Now, I've always embraced my darkness—Jim could tell you that—but I've not completely jumped for it. You all keep me sane, remind me that I need to maintain some type of humanity."

Alfred said gently, "The people you love will always remind you of who you truly are."

"Yes, well, that may be. But it's also the people you love that can stab you quietly and you don't know you're bleeding until you're at death's door. Fundamental fact: Love is risky. It's the reason why you and I met in the first place, and it's the reason you and I are stuck in this fucking thing until either someone finds us, or this place goes up in smoke…."

The elevator gave another hard jolt, vibrating the floor and the walls around them. The light behind the buttons flickered on and off for a good minute and the lights towering above them did the same. When the lights shut off, it pitched Sylvia and Alfred into darkness…but the fan started blowing so at least the air conditioning seemed to be working now.

"Well, this could be a problem." Alfred muttered in the dark.

"Just a small one."

They both let out of a soft, unnerving laugh, followed by unmet, awkward silence. It might have been thirty minutes that passed before either of them had spoken a word.

"How long did you know Thomas and Martha Wayne?" Sylvia asked softly.

Alfred answered after a moment, "Are you just talking to pass the time?"

"Honestly: yes."

"Let's talk about something else then."

"Fine then. What do you want to talk about?"

"Well, you and I seem to share animosity for Strange and his puppies. Let's talk about him, shall we?"

Sylvia chuckled, "I can talk smack about him all day for eternity, but that won't change our unfortunate situation. We should discuss how we are going to get out of here."

"That's a fair point."

"I should say so."

"Any ideas?"

"You're the SAS," Sylvia returned, unable to hide her amusement. "Shouldn't you be the one popping up with ideas of escape?"

"It's been a long time since I had to consider entrapment."

"But not the first time in a long while since you had to consider getting out of a scrape."

"Talking about Azrael, are you?"

"Azrael, no. Galavan, yes. I refuse to call him by that name. 'Azrael'. What a load of crap. He dressed different, talked different, but he was still the same fucking son-of-a-bitch."

"You curse a lot, don't you, Sylvia?"

"It's a natural state of being."

"Like your sarcasm?"

"Yes to both. It helps me think."

"Try cursing as you think about a way out of here."

"We could go through the ceiling."

"We're on the twelfth floor by now—then again, maybe we are on the second," Alfred said doubtfully. "The elevator has moved up and down so many times, I've lost my bearing."

"I lost my equilibrium the moment I got in this fucking box."

"Worst case scenario?"

"We're on the twentieth floor. The worst scenarios are limitless."

"What's the worst one you could think of?"

Sylvia said lightly, but her voice was ominous, spoken in the dark: "We lose what air conditioning we have, and it stays black as fucking night. Worst case scenario: you and I become dehydrated, unable to think or speak, and our problem isn't finding Bruce anymore: it's survival. And if it comes down to it: cannibalism. How much of a fighter are you if you haven't drunk in a couple hours, Alfred? This information might be helpful to me later down the line."

"Think that's funny, do you? We're in a bad rut of a situation, and you want to make jokes."

"I'm thinking 'worst case'. Now, we _can_ get on top of the elevator shaft and climb to the nearest floor, that's fine with me. I'm fit as a fucking fiddle, and that ain't a goddamn riddle. But if I have to lug you around on my back, I'm thinking that might take some time."

"I can take care of myself, _Missy_ ," Alfred snapped. "Don't you worry about _me_."

"How far is it between floors, though?" Sylvia asked, ignoring his tone. "How far would we have to climb?"

"Twenty, thirty feet at the least…Fifty at the most, I'm not certain."

"Fuck me." Sylvia hissed. "I don't know if I can climb for that long."

"You've been training with a CIA Agent, I hear. Been going on runs and lifting—and you're telling me you can't sky climb a rope when your life depends on it, get out of here."

"'Get out of here'? Okay, Mr. I-Can-Climb-50-Feet, what do you propose we do?"

"What—"

"Can you open the ceiling?"

"If there's a hatch."

"I don't see one."

"Well, it's not going to be noticeable, is it?" Alfred retorted, waving his hand in the dark—not that Sylvia could see it.

"Even if it wasn't fucking black as night in this godforsaken cube, there would still be a hatch, wouldn't there?"

"The architects wouldn't make it visible."

"But we'd be able to find it. It's a fucking hatch—not the Bermuda Triangle or the Holy Grail."

The lights flickered. An annoying low hum sounded after each flicker as though the building itself had just come out of a cat nap and was trying to wake itself up, however slowly. The lights then dulled to a dull orange; it wasn't the best to see in, but at least they could see their own hands. And, for that matter, the vaguest outline of a hatch in the farthest upper right corner of the elevator's ceiling.

"I'm half-surprised that a repairman hasn't come down to relieve the shaft," Alfred noted curiously.

"I'd push the 'help' button, but that wouldn't be in our best interests, now would it?"

Then the lights flickered once more and pitched them into total darkness again.

With a shaky sigh of exasperation, Sylvia crouched down nearest to the door, and tried to open it half-haphazardly, nails clawing at any metal opening she could find, but the doors were slid completely shut and there was no leniency given.

"Don't panic," Alfred cautioned. "We're nothing to each other if we panic."

"I don't like it."

"Well, pardon me, but I don't care much for it either."

The lights flickered once more; in the middle of it, Sylvia opened a smaller metal door, and pulled out an array of colorful wires. Red, blue, green, black, and clear wires were tangled together, fixed into two other colorful nodes.

"Do you know what you're doing?" Alfred asked.

"I don't. I don't know anything at this point. But I saw it on a movie once."

"Saw what on a—don't go messing with those if you don't know what they do!"

Alfred grabbed her shoulder, pulling her back. She glared at him, and she stood.

"What the fuck do you expect us to do then?" Sylvia questioned harshly. "While you and I are stuck in this fucking cube, _your_ ward and _my_ brother are with Strange right now, going through only god knows what. If we can't go up, we have to go down and I don't see a fucking hatch on the ground. Do _you_!"

She struck the floor with her heel to prove a point. The elevator didn't even budge.

"We're not going to get far by fighting like this though," Alfred reminded.

"Don't think I know that?"

"I've had to remind you several times, now, haven't I?"

"Aren't _you_ scared?"

"Of course, I am."

"Then fucking _bloody_ act like it!" Sylvia screamed. "I don't want to be in this fucking thing any more if I don't have to!"

"Would addressing you as 'lark' help you any?" Alfred offered sarcastically. "Since that's apparently what people call you these days."

"You could call me 'goddess of the Ocean' and I still wouldn't like it." She resounded, trying once more to open the metal doors, pulling and tugging. "Why won't this fucking thing _open for fuck's sake!_ "

Alfred leaned his back against the wall, and said smartly, "What if I started calling you 'pigeon'?"

Sylvia blinked and slowly turned to him.

"I hope that was a poor attempt at humor," She said dangerously.

"Not exactly."

"You're going to get yourself hurt if you don't watch it, old man. Because of this fucking situation we're in, I'm going to pretend that you just said that because you're hallucinating or something. Acceptable?"

"Fine." Alfred said, shrugging. "But if you start panicking like that again, I'll know what to use in order to piss you off again, won't I?"

"I wasn't panicking."

"You were screaming."

"Screaming seemed necessary."

"And you're shaking—"

"Would you _try_ to be fucking useful for a second," Sylvia snarled. "Just think of another way out of this fucking cage before I go fucking crazy, would you! Commenting on my appearance and how I'm acting isn't fucking helping me cope, you know! You're just pissing me off!"

"You're scared. Anyone in your position would be—including me—but what we need to do is not lose our heads. Personally, if I had to choose, I'd rather have you pissed off instead of panicking."

"You'd rather me want to kill you?" Sylvia retorted.

"It beats the alternative where you're panicking, and screaming your bloody head off."

She took a long deep inhale and then exhaled just as slowly. Her eyes searched every nook and cranny in the elevator, but ultimately, there were only two ways out of here. Either they took the chance of wearing down their muscles to climb up to the nearest floor (even if it might be fifty or sixty feet up) or they could chance the fiddling of the wires and see if that'd either make them descend down a fifty-foot drop, or open the doors. The stakes were never higher.

"Let's cool down a second, huh?" Alfred suggested. "Clear our heads first, and then we can decide what to do."

"I _know_ what I want to do."

"Before we make the decision, we must think it all the way through."

"Either situation could mean us dying."

"Have you tried using your cellular phone?"

"I didn't bring it with me. It's at home. What about yours?"

Alfred pulled out his cell, pressed a button and then he showed the result to her; it was dead too.

"Fat lot of good _that_ did." Sylvia muttered, rubbing her face.

"Let's weigh the worst-case scenarios, and pretend that neither of them will end with us dead. I mean, I'm a pretty fit guy, I'd like to think so, and you seem in good health where your physique stands, so climbing at least twenty feet up, even if it meant going up fifty would be a task—I'm not pretending it won't be—but it is doable." Alfred calculated, looking up at the ceiling. "We could open the hatch and then see exactly where we are in distance."

"Good idea." Sylvia sighed, rubbing her temples. "Whatever decision we go with, we have to make sure we're both in on it. Okay? No desertion."

"My dear," Alfred promised, "you must be the most certifiable and argumentative woman with whom I've ever had the pleasure of being stuck in an elevator, but what you can be rest assured of is that I will not be deserting you any time soon. So shall we?"

Sylvia nodded and she stood up with him.

"The hatch is there, it looks like," Alfred guessed.

"Well, you're taller, so you could reach it more than I can."

"If I stand on my toes…."

"I can lift you a little if you want."

"I'm twice or three times your weight—"

Sylvia ignored him and she knelt down, cradling her hands together so he could take a leg up. Seeing as he didn't want to start another debate with this woman, Alfred sighed reluctantly; he expected her to spit out a curse and him to fall due to her overestimation of bearing weight, but he was pleasantly surprised when she lifted him up and he met the hatch with ease.

They let out sighs of relief when the hatch was already unlocked. Forcibly, Alfred pushed the hatch cover up and he looked through it.

"What does it look like?" Sylvia asked from below.

"Less than thirty feet, if I had to guess. Maybe even twenty…I admit, without the light, I'm not the best judge of distance. Do you want to have a look?"

"I'll take your word for it!"

Sylvia lowered him down and Alfred grinned at her.

"Do you power lift?" He asked, looking at her with a whole new perspective.

"I can bench press about three-hundred pounds," She admitted proudly.

"That's incredible!"

"Tell me something I don't know," Sylvia returned, winking at him. Back to business: "Since it's not nearly as far as we thought, I think it's doable. What do you think?"

"I admit it might be a challenge, but if it's the only way out—"

"I don't want to risk falling to my death if the first option is doable."

"Neither do I, rest assured."

"So we're doing this?" Sylvia asked uncertainly.

"If you're not 100% sure…"

"I'm more than 100% sure that I want out of this fucking thing. I just don't know...this whole fucking thing is becoming too insane for my tastes."

"On that, I think we can both agree."

He lifted himself up, leaving the rifle behind. Seeing as how things were, carrying rifles were the least of their worries for the moment. If they were going to climb, they'd need to travel light as possible. Seeing as this was so, Sylvia took off her boots; after, she reached up and handed Alfred the two hand guns, which he placed (with the safety on) between his back and the waistband of his pants. After, Alfred grabbed her hand with a grunt, he pulled her up onto the top of the elevator. As she settled on top of the elevator shaft, she noticed the distance.

It was discouraging to say the least, but reachable at the same time.

"What about order?"

"What about it?"

"Well, I don't mind going first," Alfred offered, "being the man and all."

"Afraid that if you go up second, you might see up my skirt?" Sylvia teased, smirking when Alfred turned that familiar soft shade of pink again.

"Now isn't the time for joking!"

"I'd rather be poking fun instead of losing my head, you know. But all joking aside: You're right. If you want to go first, you're more than welcome to, but I can guarantee that once you get through the elevator door, you won't be meeting friends."

"So you think _you_ should go first?"

"I'm charismatic and these lunatics know who I am, even whilst being stuck in their cages," Sylvia said lightly. "Between you and me, the odds of us getting threatened would be slim if they saw me first."

"And if Strange is there?"

"I'll gladly put his head on a pike."

"Colorful," Alfred sighed as he rubbed his eyelids with the pads of his index fingers. "Perhaps you should go first then."

"Will do."

She grappled the metallic rope with her legs and arms, climbing up as though she was back in high school again, up the knotted, cattle-hair ropes. The only difference between then and now was that the rope she climbed currently didn't sway left and right nearly as much; it made it easier to keep her balance, and her determination set. She glanced down to see Alfred taking off his coat, wearing the collared long-sleeve shirt pulled up to his elbows, and the vest unbuttoned just enough to take the load off his chest so he could breathe quicker and easier. He ascended in the same manner.

"When Thomas and Martha Wayne made me Bruce's guardian, I thought I'd have to do a lot of things for him," Alfred said conversationally as he grunted and sighed in effort to get up the rope. "But never in all my years of being their butler did I ever imagine having to do _this."_

"I wish I could say the same thing," Sylvia chuckled. "But being Jim's sister has always held an insurmountable number of possibilities to include going after mobsters, protecting his girlfriends from other mobsters, and—now – tunneling through a fucking elevator with a rich boy's butler. On the list of things I would not have expected to happen, this is probably Number Ten."

As fun as the conversation was, the two of them had silenced in order to retain their energy for the climb itself. They'd return when they were at least halfway up. Steadily, both could feel their energy depleting, their bicep and tricep muscles tingling with exhaustion; a cramp was slowly making its way into Sylvia's abdomen and it seemed to bear down on her right hip.

"How're you doing down there?" Sylvia panted, glancing over her right arm to see Alfred a few feet below.

"Just….well, doing, you know." Alfred answered from below, sounding just as tired. "How much further, do you think?"

She looked up, and said uncertainly, "Five more feet, I imagine. Then, I'll have to…I'll have to swing my weight to get to the door. Looks like it's mechanically closed. Pretty sure I could make it, but, even if I could swing myself to the ledge, I doubt I could open it once I get there."

"Fire a bullet at it—might come undone."

"Did you say 'might' or 'will'?"

"It _might_!" Alfred called back, and his voice echoed. "Hit the spot on the wall—this building was made by a half-wit architect; I imagine the strength of the walls is as flimsy as the electrical breaker boxes."

"I sure hope it works. What's the fucking point of crawling out of the elevator just to be stopped by a fucking door?" Sylvia muttered resentfully. "Do you have our guns?"

"Yes…."

"Where is it?"

"It's in my pants. Hold on…."

"Without context, that's pretty perverted, Alfred."

"Oh, go on!"

Sylvia watched Alfred let a hand loose from his grip on the rope and he quickly fumbled behind his back for one of their guns. Finding one, he held it up for her to take.

Sylvia slowly—like molasses running down a 120-degree incline—bent down so her feet were horizontally parallel with her neck and head.

"A bit of a contortionist, are you," chuckled Alfred.

"Just give me the fucking thing."

He handed it to her with a small stretch of his arm and she took it. Gathering herself back to normal height and stance, Sylvia aimed the gun. Not at the door, but in the spot where the button would be centered on the opposite side of the wall. After she shot at it a couple of times (the resounding gun fire echoing loudly enough that the two of them winced), there was a soft mechanical groan and then the door slowly opened as though it had to think twice about the action it was performing.

And a small sliver of optimism shined through.

No one was there.

Like a squirrel would hop from one tree to another, Sylvia bent her legs and then with no room to think of the consequences if she should fall, she took a long leap and caught herself; her fingers were the only thing keeping her adrift from falling down the tunnel to her demise.

"That's it!" He encouraged. "You've almost got it! Go on!"

Sylvia wiggled, planting her feet on the nearest metal ledge she could find and then shimmied herself up. Her hands on the floor, then her elbows, and she pulled herself up, breathing hard, but still very much alive.

"Okay…." She panted. "Now it's your turn!"

She crawled to the edge, and held out her hands, beckoning to him.

"Think like a squirrel." She suggested.

"Like a bloody squirrel…That's what it has come down to." Alfred mumbled. "Alright…Here I go…" He took a single leap and nearly missed until she caught his wrists, letting out a hard grunt herself.

"Stop wriggling! You're making this harder than necessary. Just stay fucking still and I'll pull you up the rest of the way."

"If I didn't know you were strong, I'd say you were crazy."

"Just don't move, okay?"

Alfred didn't exactly go dead weight but he didn't wriggle as he was instructed. Sylvia pulled him up and he was lying next to her in no time, red in the face, and nearly having a heart attack. Sylvia stood up, brushing her skirt from the dust and debris, and smiled at him happily.

"Should we continue on?" She offered, holding out her hand for him to take.

He took it and said candidly, "Once we're through with this, I'll be more than happy to buy you a drink, Liv."

Sylvia chuckled and they started on a run to the nearest staircase.

"We're gonna have to expect a few obstacles on the way, you know," She said, glancing at him as they descended towards the basement.

"Why is that?"

"We're on camera now," She noted unhappily, pointing at the nearest black orb settled in the corner of the ceiling.

"Oh, for a heaven's _sake_!"

"Hey, we're out the elevator. That's better than—"

She and Alfred stepped through two metal double doors. Right at that moment about five guards, all of whom were holding syringe needles grabbed them by their shoulders and pulled Alfred and Sylvia over the threshold of the entrance, and each were given enough tranquilizers to take down a horse.


	4. Forgiven

Chapter Four: Forgiven

* * *

When she woke up, the room was spinning.

Or was _she_ spinning?

Sylvia opened her eyes carefully, noticing that the guards were gone, but around her were four familiar souls. Alfred, Bruce, Fox, and Jim. Like herself, they were drugged; Jim was strapped to a chair by the arms and legs, and he looked the worst between the five of them.

She quickly collected herself, getting to her feet, only to be outweighed by her unbalanced equilibrium and she went crashing back down to the concrete floor.

"What the fuck did they…oh, no... Alfred… _Alfred_ , wake up!" Sylvia said loudly, but in all reality, the words had been spoken barely above a whisper.

Nausea suddenly masked her dizziness. Sylvia picked herself off the ground, rushing to the nearest thing that looked like a sink and upchucked anything and everything that was left in her stomach. After dry heaving the last two minutes, she wiped her drool from her chin with the back of her hand, squinting through the blurriness until her vision became sharper, and noticed Jim was the only one in a chair.

Like her, he was groggy.

"Jim...fuck, _Jim_! Oh my god, are you okay!" Sylvia cried, running to him, and nearly stumbling over her own bare feet. She knelt down in front of him: "Oh my god, Jim, can you hear me? Jim…Jim! Say something!"

"Hi, Vee…." Jim groaned, squinting his eyes at her.

"Did they drug you?"

"Yes."

Sylvia glanced down at Bruce and Fox, shaking them awake.

"Guys, wake up!" She said hastily. "Wake up!"

Fox groaned, sitting up, and looked around just as Bruce did the same.

"My word…That was extremely unpleasant," He said logically, rubbing his head.

Bruce sat up as well, looking at Sylvia curiously before noticing the rest of them were around him. Alfred, who had managed to get through the dizzy spell without vomiting his lungs out, rose to his full stance.

"Can't imagine what they gave us," Alfred said dismally, rubbing his elbows. "Not exactly the gentlest of orderlies, were they?"

"Well, we're not dead." Sylvia reminded. "That's what's important."

"Why are you here?" Fox asked, getting up, glancing at Alfred and Sylvia. "How did you get in?"

"Posing as a guardsman," Alfred answered. "This one pretended to be a prisoner." He nodded his head at Sylvia. "She had _me_ fooled."

"Alfred!" Bruce exclaimed, and he quickly hugged the butler, who returned it whole-heartedly.

"Where's Strange?" Sylvia questioned the room. "Where is he?"

"We don't know. We were gassed," Fox answered.

Alfred chimed in: "Like us—we were caught in the hallway…."

"No—not _us_. Mr. Wayne and I were held up in some type of room, being questioned by a _lunatic_ who has, might I add, a bit of an obsession with riddles."

"Ed?" Sylvia suggested. She stepped towards Fox: "Why was Ed there?"

"He wasn't with us technically—he was playing a game." Bruce pitched. "Asked us questions, wanted to know what we knew about people who ran Indian Hill, Wayne Enterprises…."

"Apparently the answer 'Board of Directors' was not a satisfying answer," Fox said offhandedly, while he appeared seriously offended. "Who else _would_ run Wayne Enterprises?"

"And 'I don't know' is never sufficient," Sylvia stated, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. "But did he seem okay when you saw him?"

"Why on Earth would that matter?" snapped Alfred, taking Bruce's shoulder and pulling him back to him protectively. "That lunatic damn near killed them!"

"If it was poisonous gas, they'd be dead already."

"But the fact remains—"

"—Let it go, Alfred—" Bruce suggested warily.

"—Master B and Lucius were put into a situation they needn't have been. I'm assuming you're trying to defend this inmate because he's a friend of yours?"

Sylvia said coolly, "It's complicated between us."

Fox asked curiously, "Is he a lover?"

"What!" She responded incredulously. "No, of course not!"

"That's an emphatic 'no' for a simple question," Fox noticed while Bruce and Alfred silently agreed.

"Fuck you!" Sylvia snapped at Fox, who looked unaffected by it. "My _love_ life isn't the thing in question here, guys, so you'd fuck off if you know what's good for you."

She strode past them and stood before Jim, who looked at her sadly.

"Are you okay, Jimmy?" She said softly; it was a 180-degree change in her voice from when she had spoken to the other three.

"No."

"Did they drug you?" Fox asked.

"Yes. They drugged me. Made me talk."

"About Wayne Enterprises?" Bruce assumed as he undid Jim's restraints.

"About Wayne Enterprises, about everything…." Jim said unhappily. He suddenly took Bruce's arm. "I never should have made that oath to you. I was arrogant and naive. I'm sorry. I tried to do the right thing" (Bruce, Fox, Alfred, and Sylvia exchanged odd glances) "but what a _fool_ I've been."

Fox cleared his throat and said gingerly, "Mr. Gordon, what kind of drugs did they give you?"

"Honesty serum. Strange said it was 'honesty serum'."

"Potions that make you tell the truth," Sylvia muttered as she finished untying the one restraint around his legs. "Back then, we used to just torture people until they gave us what we needed. This world is getting soft, isn't it, buddy?"

"Vee—"

"—Not now, Jim—"

"— _Vee—_ "

"—I said ' _not now_ '!" She interrupted him, putting a hand over his mouth. "There will be plenty of time for you to tell me the truth about whatever you feel it is that I don't already know about, but first we need to find Strange."

She freed his mouth so she could bend down and untie the other restraint on his leg.

"Vee, I'm sorry I wasn't there for the times you needed me," Jim continued, ignoring her comments from earlier. "I wanted to be the brother you wanted me to be, but I can't…not always, but I should have been there for your wedding, but I let my pride get the best of me."

"Seriously, Jim, you can stop." Sylvia said curtly, as she stood. "I already know that stuff. Trust me. I _know_ you."

"You're the only woman that hasn't abandoned me," Jim said quietly, looking at her with puppy dog eyes. "The truth is that I know no matter what I do to you, you'll always be there for me. Sometimes, I take advantage of that, and I manipulate it to my own benefit, and I'm sorry…."

"I already knew _that_ too. Seriously, there's nothing you can tell me that I haven't already figured out for myself."

"I know when I find Lee. I'm sure she'll have found someone else. That hurts, but then I think: 'well, another one is gone, she'll be happier without me'. But it doesn't hurt _as_ much, because I know I'll have you; I know you got my back...no matter what I do."

"…Jim…."

He stood in front of her and said softly, "I really don't know where our mom went after they divorced. I'm not sure if she died or—or what—but I know that since she has been gone, I see you differently. Not like a sister... You've been a maternal figure to me more than her, even when she was still around."

"Okay, stop." Sylvia urged, putting a hand over his mouth. "You're freaking me out with your confessions, okay? Like, seriously…Hush, _please_."

Meanwhile, Fox, Bruce, and Alfred exchanged looks that consisted of confusion, doubt, and discomfort.

"I hate it because I took our parents for granted," Jim rambled, taking Sylvia's hand from his mouth, "I took them for granted, thought they were immortal. And you're right, Vee. You're _right_. I felt like I was the favorite…You were always in my shadow, and I didn't notice until a lot later."

" _Jim_."

"I love you a great deal," He wrapped his arms around her in a bear hug. "More than I will ever love anyone else...more than I love myself..."

"But you hate yourself. So, that's not much of a compliment."

"I just love you a lot, and I want you to know that."

"Okay, Care Bear." She patted his shoulders, and pushed him away from her gently. "As much as I like hearing you grovel for my affection and apologizing to me, I can't be this close to you right now, okay?"

He looked at her, confused.

"The police thought you checked in with them. Strange sent one his puppies to the GCPD, and you can ask Alfred—they looked _just_ like you. Acted like you…Well, for the most part."

"What do you mean 'for the most part'?" Fox asked curiously.

Sylvia didn't say it, as if the actual vocalization of it would make her puke.

Instead, Alfred piped up: "That impostor kissed her."

"Like on the cheek?" Bruce assumed.

"With his tongue," Alfred answered, shuddering with disgust.

Fox, Bruce, and Jim looked completely appalled, glancing at Sylvia in turn.

" _Needless_ to say," Sylvia managed, "that's ultimately how Harvey and all of them figured out you weren't—well— _you_. I had a feeling you weren't you when you called me 'doll', 'sugar bean', and 'sweet thing'. Yet, he couldn't remember that you" (She pointed to him cleverly) "called me 'Vee'. Must have been the only thing Strange or whatever-he-was didn't know about the one and only James Gordon. Suffice to say, it was a bit aggravating talking to Not-You."

Jim rubbed his head and said softly, "Well, I'm glad you're okay."

"I'm okay, just...for now...keep your distance."

Fox turned to Alfred: "When did you find out that we never left Arkham?"

"I knew immediately, but getting here wasn't exactly the easiest thing in the world. Little Frumpkin just blew through the highway like she was driving a tank, instead of my car."

"Hey, don't talk smack about me—We got out of there _alive_ ," Sylvia reminded loudly.

"Then we were stuck in the bloody elevator for a while," Alfred continued. He addressed Jim with a mixture of admiration and incredibility: "I don't know how you two grew up without killing each other. This one could be _really_ argumentative."

"You chose to go down that bumpy road, Jeeves. You didn't _have_ to argue with me." Sylvia noted wryly, smirking at him.

"On a contrary, I'm sure I did. How your husband deals with your quibbles is beyond me."

"Well, my quibbles tend to lie parallel to his own agenda about nine out of ten times; those are pretty damn good odds."

"I find it admirable that you are able to bat away every cynical remark I have about your personality."

"Whatever, Alfred." Sylvia sighed, rolling her eyes. She looked at Jim: "What are we going to do now?"

"I need some water." Jim muttered.

"Is that a fact?"

"Well," Bruce uttered pointedly, "he _can_ only tell the truth right now, so..."

Alfred patted Bruce on the back, saying, "Don't start in with that one, Master B, trust me," when Sylvia sent the two of them a cold glance.

* * *

After a few minutes had passed where most of the drug had been worked out of their system. They all stood in a circle, contemplating their decisions that led them up to this moment. Two orderlies dressed in white garb came strutting in, holding a young girl by the arm. When she was finally let go, Sylvia noticed her on sight.

It was Selina, or 'Cat', as she preferred to be called.

She looked directly at Bruce: "You."

Glancing at them all, he took the initiative and walked towards her. They spoke in low voices.

"What the hell is this room anyway?" Sylvia questioned. "Is it a closet, a kitchen…Can't be a torture room, I don't see a rack anywhere."

"Who was the imposter?" Jim inquired, looking at her curiously.

"Some guy. I don't know. Didn't really care to find out more."

"Was Harvey fooled?"

"Are you kidding!" Alfred said harshly. "If it was left up to him, you'd still be here and we'd still be chasing our tails, looking for the lot of you! Luckily, Sylvia was there."

"The only person around or alive that would have known Jim wasn't acting like himself would've been Babs. Kinda cold in this room," Sylvia mused as she glanced at her own bare feet.

"Who is 'Babs'?" Fox questioned.

"Miss Kean," Alfred clarified.

"Jimmy Boy's former flame," Sylvia said with crooked grin.

"Right." Jim mumbled.

"What are they talking about, do you wonder?" Fox asked, eying Bruce and Selina indicatively.

"Who knows: true love is an enigma." Sylvia sighed, smiling genuinely at the young lovers.

"Speaking of E's and 'Nygmas'," Fox said unhappily.

"Don't start."

"He wouldn't be around," Jim said knowingly. "Strange probably put him back in his cell."

Selina suddenly left with the two guards and Bruce turned to them, looking more troubled than ever.

"What'd she say?" Jim asked.

"She'll do what she likes. And….there's a bomb."

"I imagine that last part should have come first, don't you think, son?" Sylvia contemplated. "And here we were worried we'd die of starvation and dehydration in a fucking elevator. This certainly puts things into perspective."

"Well, _no_ _amount_ of cannibalism would save you after being detonated, would it?" Alfred remarked. "So, you might as well get that idea out of your head instantly."

Fox glanced between them unsteadily and said, "Starvation, dehydration, _cannibalism—_ What kind of conversations were you two having before?"

"One of survival. You're not on the menu," Sylvia joked. "You've nothing to worry about."

"Grand." Fox remarked, although not so enthusiastically.

"So, we're in here while there's a bomb going on," said Alfred, looking at Bruce. "What are we to do until then? Wait for her to come back?"

"She'd have a plan," He answered calmly. "She always does."

"And if the bombs go off _before_ she comes back?" Fox offered.

Alfred sighed, "Then we'll die here, won't we?"

Sylvia glared at Alfred, and the rest of them: "You all may die here, but _I_ certainly am _not_. I _just_ reunited with my husband, and if you think Strange is going to be the reason why I have to call Oswald and tell him I'm not coming back, then you all have another thing coming!"

"But—" Bruce began.

Alfred pulled him back: "Actually, let her steam a while. She thinks best when she's miffed."

Excluding Sylvia, of course, all of them turned to Jim for confirmation and the man shrugged—they knew the answer already anyway. An alarm started going off above.

Sylvia was just about to leave until Selina stormed through the doors, smiling.

"What's going on?" Bruce asked.

Selina returned, "Simple psychology. I was just waiting for the right moment."

They followed her through the doors, to a cafeteria, where Victor Fries and someone who could only be Bridgit Pike back from the dead having an ice-and-fire fight across a set of tables with Dr. Hugo Strange standing in the back, looking on with horror.

 _Fifteen Minutes to Detonation._

The P.A. system above spoke in a flat tone.

That prompted Strange to look up in fear and then, as though deciding now would be the best time to get going, he stood and ran. When he did, Freeze and Firefly caught the movement and threw their preferential element at each other, locking the doctor in as a median. The man fell flat on his back when he'd gotten enough of a dose to vaporize a dog.

"If he doesn't die from that, I'd be surprised," Sylvia said amusedly.

Firefly and Freeze exchanged regrettable expressions. After all. In some ways, he was 'Father'.

Jim was on Hugo Strange, hitting him a few times before Strange woke up. Seeing Jim, he smiled. Seeing Sylvia, his smile retracted a little.

"Well, it seems that my plan may have gone awry," He drawled.

"Forget surprise," muttered Sylvia. "Now, I'm just damn near disappointed."

"You could say that." Jim said to Strange with a sarcastic smile. "Now, I'm going to stand you up. When I do, you're going to show us a tour of your secret lab."

"No, no!" Strange squeaked, shaking in his shoes.

"You don't have a choice!"

Strange was pulled to his feet.

Jim said offhandedly, "It's this way, right?"

"We can't go down there!" Strange insisted fearfully. "We can't! I set a bomb! The lab is going to blow up! We have to get out of here! In ten minutes, everything within a quarter mile of radius will be _dust_."

"That's madness," said Jim, switching serious glances with Sylvia, then looking at Strange, who was slowly losing his composure.

" _If you want to live—which I do_ _ **frankly—**_ we had better leave!" Strange responded strongly.

"We detected a radioactive material down there," Fox said coolly, "You got it out first, right?"

"There wasn't enough time! They forced my hand, but by my calculations, the chance of a radioactive cloud is fairly low."

"If you're wrong, thousands of people could die."

"Yes, yes, yes, but paying that price will be better than releasing what's _down_ there."

"How do we shut it down?" Jim demanded.

"The security walls are up—the lab is sealed—"

"—There must be someway in—"

"—Please, we have to _go!_ We have to leave now!"

Having had enough of his pleas, Jim grabbed Strange by the collar and threatened, "You tell me how to get that bomb and shut it off or I'll batter you to death right now!"

Sylvia looked on with pride.

Strange confessed helplessly, "In which case, young man, I suppose I will have to die."

Sylvia strode up to him saying, "I'll gladly indulge."

"Vee—"

"Jim, if there's no way of disarming a bomb, I'm going to get my jollies in before I fucking die. Aside from torturing my husband and nearly ruining my marriage, I think I'm a _little_ entitled to kill the weasel, don't **you**!"

Everyone's face looked troubled—as needed—until Selina chimed in, "Wait! Nygma knows a way down there!"

Sensing the doc was a lost cause, Jim let Strange be. He turned to Fox, saying, "Could use some help…."

"You got me." He said dutifully.

Jim spoke to Selina and Bruce, saying, "You two. You've got nine minutes. Get as far from here as possible. Alfred—" (Jim turned to the butler) "—get them out of here, no matter what happens."

Alfred pushed Bruce and Selina out of the doors even though Bruce was fiercely protesting.

Jim looked at Sylvia.

"No!" She immediately fired. "If you think even for a second that I'm leaving—"

"For once, I need you to stay," Jim said quickly.

"Oh, now I need to know why."

"You need to know why?"

"Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't, but you've never once asked me to stay when my life and yours are threatened. So yes, I'd like to know."

"Nygma won't budge for me, but for you, I know he'd move mountains."

"That's sweet."

"Could we—" Fox insisted, gesticulating for them to move forward with the impromptu plan.

The three went sprinting down the hall way with Sylvia leading the way to Ed's cell, taking down any guard that tried to disrupt their mission. When one guard did, she knocked him out cold, took his keys, and fled down the hall. The other two were louder, considering they wore shoes; hers were still sitting in the stuck elevator.

When she opened Ed's cell, he looked perplexed at first, then he smiled.

"I'll tell you what's happening," Sylvia said breathlessly. "But first, you have to come with me."

Jim and Fox arrived shortly behind her. Ed glanced at them with a frown: "Liv?"

"Just come with me!" She snapped, grabbing his arm and running down the hall.

They stopped shortly at a dead end, where, presumably, was the entrance to Strange's lab. Sensing the urgency, Ed hastily pulled up a panel.

"What do I get if I do it?" He asked Jim.

"You get to live!" Jim returned coldly.

Ed looked less than ready to appease the detective, but Sylvia hushed Jim, which made Ed happier. After she silenced him, she put her hand on Ed's face.

"If you do this for me, we're even."

"This will account for framing Gordon?"

Jim suppressed a snarl, but Sylvia nodded, saying, "Yes. Now, _please_...We don't have much time."

Ed picked the lock, and it opened. Fox leapt forward, but Jim stayed behind.

"You need to get as far from here as possible." Jim warned.

"I know the stakes." Sylvia reassured.

Jim joined Fox in the elevator shaft and they made their way down to the basement. When they had gone, Sylvia turned to Ed, who watched expectantly.

"We need to get out."

"Out? why—"

"Strange made a bomb."

"A _bomb—_ "

"—Yes, a bomb. And it is set to go off in ten minutes. Less than ten, actually."

"Oh, just _great_ ," Ed growled.

"Stop _pouting_ and come with me!"

And just as she was headed down the hallway with all of the cells, including Ed's, two guards came up, including the one who had seen her in handcuffs about to be admitted. Recognizing her from earlier, it didn't take long for him and the other guard to push them into Ed's cell, lock it, and then walk away as though they couldn't hear the alarm blaring above.

Sylvia hammered on the door, shouting, "I'm not even a fucking patient, you fuckers! GET ME OUT!"

Ed sighed, looking at the ceiling, "This would be my luck."

"What _luck_?" She asked, sitting against the door hopelessly. "This isn't exactly an ideal situation for me either."

"I wasn't talking about the bomb. There finally was a way to make it up to you, so you could forgive me for framing your brother—"

"—And killing one of the Strike Force—"

"—That too…." Ed readily agreed. "Once I accomplished that….Well, it doesn't matter anyway."

The P.A. System updated with the new detonation count down but Sylvia made a point to ignore it. She didn't want a countdown if her life was going to end. She'd prefer it to be a surprise.

She leaned her back against the door, sinking down, sitting beside him.

She looked at him, saying, "I did forgive you. You know."

"Did you?"

"I have."

"It's not because we're about to die, is it?" He asked, unconvinced. "Things change when one's life is at stake. Feelings get stronger, stakes are higher…."

"Would it make a difference if I told you that I forgave you long before you opened Strange's lab."

"Why are you smiling? We're about to die, Liv." Ed said tiredly. "Wait, what did you say?"

Sylvia stood; Ed did too.

"You've done some atrocious things," She cared to acknowledged. "You killed Kristen, and Officer Dougherty; you framed my brother for a crime that _I_ committed...put Bruce and Fox in a room and then tried poisoning them—a lot of that should bother me."

"Doesn't it bother you?"

"It does," Sylvia conceded, nodding. "But only where my brother is concerned. You put his life at stake, and then pretended to be my friend."

"Not to rehash old arguments, but I wasn't pretending."

Sylvia stared at him, contemplating whether or not she wanted to get into that debate or not, but owing to the fact that they had very little time to get their feelings out to the open, she decided to ignore his comment.

"You've hurt me enough in the past that I would be able to kill you and not feel too bad about it. At least not a couple months from now."

"So you _would_ feel bad for a little if you killed me, then."

Sylvia chuckled, "And that's your silver lining? Really?"

Ed looked at her with a mild annoyance, "Liv, we're going to die in a nuke. You might as well cut the bit and get to the point, please?"

"I _know_ you," She said lightly. "I knew you back when you were just Ed: The Forensic Guy. You were nervous, awkward, and you had never killed a soul. In some ways, I think I helped you into becoming...well, whatever it is you claim to be. You're a part of me, a friend that I wouldn't find anywhere else in the world. You're quite possibly my _best_ friend. Just being able to say that…."

 _Two minutes until detonation._

"Are we okay, then?" Ed questioned.

Sylvia smiled, holding out her hand. He shook it.

"Great," He said with a quirky smile. "Forgiveness is always good to have just before we die."

And then…No bomb. No detonation of any kind.

"It's been more than two minutes," Ed mumbled.

"I guess Jim got to it before it could explode."

"Clever Jimbo."

"Watch that tone of yours when you're talking about my brother."

Feeling it best not to press his luck, Ed smiled innocently. Then they hugged. But there was a stern side to the hug as Sylvia drew back and her eyes bore into his.

"Let this be a warning to you."

"Yes?"

"If you go after my family again—any of them—you and I will no longer be friends."

Ed said logically, "'Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.' Is that about it?"

"That's exactly right."

The door opened; it was a guard, who looked at the both of them, saying, "Accountability for all the inmates." He pointed to Sylvia: "You're not a patient, are you?"

"That's correct."

"Get out of here, then."

"Roger that." Sylvia sighed, getting to her feet. She smiled sweetly at Ed, who waved at her. "See you later, Eddy."

"Bye, Liv!"

And the door closed on her way out.


	5. The Past Can Leave A Nasty Scar

Chapter Five: The Past Can Leave A Nasty Scar

* * *

In _Lean On Vee's_ , Sylvia stood on the stage. Per the Friday night schedule, she made a habit of standing in the spot light, singing. Aside from the clinking of drinks, the clatter of eating utensils on dinnerware, there was no other sounds except for the pianist that played and Sylvia's voice in the microphone. The song of the night: 'Set The Fire To The Third Bar' by Snow Patrol.

" _I find the map and draw a straight line_

 _Over rivers, farms, and state lines_

 _The distance from A to where you'd be_

 _It's only finger lengths that I see."_

In the front of the audience was her regular attendee, her husband, Oswald. Lavish in his custom-fitted suits, he occupied one of the mahogany armchairs seated at a circular table; one hand holding a glass of red wine while the other was balanced atop a penguin-shaped handle of his cane.

He'd never missed any of her performances, even back in the days when Falcone or Maroni (whichever he'd acclaimed his loyalty to on the occasion) was demanding his advice or his presence.

" _I touch the place_

 _Where I'd find your face_

 _My fingers in creases_

 _Of distant, dark places."_

Sitting adjacent to Oswald was Butch Gilzean.

Ever since he and Oswald had joined ranks to kill Galavan (or 'Azrael' as the newspapers liked to embellish), Butch was by his side, just like in the old days. Despite the ramifications that had followed while Butch was playing pet to his now fully conscious, ex-girlfriend, Tabitha, all things had been forgiven under circumstances provided: Butch was working for Penguin, so—naturally—he and Sylvia had to put their past debacles aside in order for work to take precedence.

Even if Butch hadn't been working for Penguin, odds are Sylvia still would've forgiven him. After all, they'd been good friends—even when Fish had carved the very symbol of her old club in Sylvia's collar bone; while the mark had faded into nothing but a hardly noticeable scar, it had left a lasting impression on the singer. The only satisfaction Sylvia had gotten at the time was equating Fish's mark to one of her own; Sylvia had bit the woman on the thigh, and unknown to her, Falcone's ex-underling still bore the mark of her hateful passion.

Butch's feelings for Sylvia were purely platonic. He'd watched her grow from being Fish's underling (on the same level as Oswald had been as her umbrella boy), then steadily had made her way up the ranks just as Oswald had. Butch was certain that if Sylvia ever had the ambition, she could outlast Penguin and become the One Ruler of Gotham's underbelly...after all, she'd done it for a period of time all alone back when Penguin was still under the impression that he had rehabilitated under Dr. Hugo Strange's brainwashing.

But for all her ambition, charisma, and her ability to bench press 300 pounds, Sylvia's only weakness was her husband. And that seemed to balance her out fairly well.

Sylvia smiled as she started the second verse:

" _I hang my coat up in the first bar_

 _There is no peace that I've found so far_

 _The laughter penetrates my silence_

 _As drunken men find flaws in science."_

Hidden behind the audience, the waiters and waitresses, the patrons and the body guards, was a man. His attire was all black, including the leather jacket he wore, and his boots. Arms crossed over his chest like the brooding former detective that he was, Jim Gordon stood with his back against the wall, watching his sister's performance.

Back when they were kids, Jim remembered when Sylvia had tried out to be in the chorus, or had even attempted to become a member of the Dance Team. Back then, she had little to no confidence; what little she had, Jim had remembered that their father had been especially hard on her dreams. Their father's criticism at his only daughter's wish to become a performer instead of something practical like—say—a lawyer, police officer, or a military member had evaporated whatever confidence and ambitions Sylvia had left.

Years having gone by, it was Oswald who had encouraged her to sing on stage, and it was by his affluence of attaining a night club that Sylvia finally did.

And she blew the audience away with not only her voice but with her charm. And then later, her talent to not just keep up with choreography but to create it as well.

And for Jim, who had followed the path of practicality, he found himself being a bounty hunter more than cop or detective. So, if their father ever lived to see the day when his starlet was performing at clubs (even ones that served lesser characters) while his son was a bounty hunter, Jim wondered if he'd still be proud or disappointed.

" _Their words mostly noises_

 _Ghosts with just voices_

 _Your words in my memory_

 _Are like music to me."_

Whatever the case, Jim could say _he_ was proud. After all, Sylvia was living her dream.

" _And miles from where you are_

 _I lay down on that cold ground, I_

 _I pray that something picks me up_

 _And sets me down in your warm arms."_

Sylvia stepped a little way from the microphone and gave the attention to the pianist, whose turn it was to sing a verse and a chorus.

Delilah strode to the edge of the stage where Sylvia met her, looking concerned. The young woman was Goth, wearing clothes resembling her style. A mysterious, darkened beauty, Delilah was not just a bar maid or Sylvia's financial head; she was a businesswoman, and Sylvia's second-in-command.

Discreetly, Delilah leaned forward, looking up at Sylvia, who bent down at the waist to listen to her. Whatever Delilah had to say made Sylvia's nose wrinkle in disgust but just as quickly as the repulsion had come, it left her face immediately. She gestured towards the back where Jim stood, and Delilah followed the path where her finger pointed, and nodded dutifully.

Oswald watched the two women speak. His curiosity was only piqued when Delilah quickly strode away from the audience's vision, skimming past them and clinging to the club's walls as she briskly walked to meet Jim in the back, who received her expectantly.

Sylvia was back on the mic, attracting whatever attention had been divided. She sang:

" _And miles from where you are_

 _I lay down on the cold ground and I_

 _I pray that something picks me up_

 _and sets me down in your warms."_

Once the piano had struck its last softest chord, the audience erupted into a standing ovation, Oswald included.

"Thank you, thank you," Sylvia said happily. "Thank you! I enjoyed spending this time with you tonight—"

"WE LOVE YOU! WOO!"

"Settle down, Dagger." She chuckled. "That's one of my men from the back—he's enthusiastic, can't you tell?"

The audience tittered.

"Like always, I'll be performing again next Friday night, and you all are more than welcome to attend. As of now, I'll be giving the stage to the pianist, Michael Dugen...Michael, if you would..." (She handed the microphone to the pianist) "Not only is he a musician, but he's also a comic. So, we'll no doubt have a laugh or at least a cruel chuckle before the night is out!"

The audience clapped again and Michael took the stage while Sylvia, wearing a lavender-colored ballgown, lifted the dress just enough so she could find her way down the stage's steps without falling on her ass. At the bottom, she smiled sweetly at Oswald, who had met her halfway.

"You were magnificent, as always," He complimented.

He and Sylvia exchanged a gentle kiss.

"Wasn't she, Butch?"

"Yeah. A ringer, as always." Butch said, getting up from the table and meeting the two of them on the floor. "What was that little girl talking to you about?"

"Delilah?" Sylvia's smile faltered as she replied, "Nothing much. One of the guests saw one of Strange's monsters outside, and they wanted to call the police. Delilah brought the information to me first, and I sent her to Jim."

"How _is_ Gordon?" Butch said curiously, crossing his arms. "I've not seen him in a while."

"He was just here. Standing in the back."

Butch turned but Jim wasn't there. He blinked, confused.

"Your observational skills must be off," She teased. "He _was_ standing there though, before Delilah passed on the message."

"He's a bounty hunter these days?"

"Yep. Hunting for bounty..."

"He's not a cop anymore?"

"Not for the moment."

"The GCPD don't want him?"

"Quite the opposite. They're begging for him to come back but he doesn't want to be a cop for the moment. You know, loose ends to tie, fish to fry—that type of thing. You are just _full_ of questions, aren't you?"

Embarrassed by her statement of the obvious, Butch smiled weakly. Oswald eased his mortification, saying, "Butch, would you give us a moment?"

"Sure thing, Boss. I'll go check out that buffet—looks like there's still some stuffed shrimp…"

He quickly hopped to it, leaving Sylvia and Oswald alone.

After he was gone, Oswald sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with two fingers.

"He's still heartbroken?" She questioned knowingly.

"Fragile as they come," Oswald sighed with a hint of annoyance. "It's been three months for god's sake."

"Tabitha wrangled her way into his brain in order to fix him, remember? Maybe along the way, she found a way inside his heart too. You never know…."

A waiter came by, offering a platter of drinks. Sylvia thanked him, taking a glass of champagne off the silver plate, and the waiter smiled as though he had been given three raises in a single go. As the waiter continued to serve other patrons, Sylvia took a sip while Oswald watched her, almost distractedly.

"Brainwashing is a mysterious thing all on its own." She continued compassionately. "Butch just needs to get into the dating world. With a guy like him, though, it might warrant a shove."

"I'm not fixing him up with anyone, if that's what you're implying. I'm no match maker."

"Wouldn't expect you to be, lover." Sylvia replied, winking at him. "Provided that this is what you want. As long as Butch is holding out for the day that Tabitha changes her mind and leaves Barbara— _that_ old love triangle—then you've got _this"_ (She nodded her head to the side to indicate Butch) "to work with until then. Personally, I'd have enjoyed it more if she just stayed in a coma...that would have been more satisfying."

"I doubt it."

"Doubt?" She responded, lowering her glass of champagne in surprise. "Why?"

Oswald said lovingly, "Satisfaction isn't in your nature."

"Oh, like it's in _yours_?"

"Pigeon, for the moment, I'm content."

"And if you weren't?"

"You would know."

"I'm sure I would. What if I was the cause of your lack of contentment?"

"That's hardly ever the case."

"Oh, so I'm the _reason_ behind your satisfaction?"

"You always are."

"That's a provocative thought."

"Titillating, at the very least," Oswald agreed.

He couldn't help but take in Sylvia's appearance; the way all of her ginger hair was pulled to one shoulder so that in her strapless gown, her skin was exposed for everyone to admire. In the alternating sunshine colored lights as well as the indigo-colored bulbs above, it was making Oswald think of the dirtiest things he could be doing to her now rather than standing in this professional atmosphere and having to behave as such.

In any other time, Oswald would have taken her against the wall, show her just how 'provocative' his thoughts could be, but when it came to business—even in what used to be his own club—there was a demand for civility.

In an attempt to push away the obtrusive (although exceedingly satisfying) inappropriate thoughts he had, Oswald cleared his throat and Sylvia looked at him with a business-like smile, although it shrouded her mischief as well as he could hide his own.

"How has Delilah been doing?"

"Training her has been a cinch. She works diligently during duty hours—a few times I've come in and she was still here. It's damn near miraculous."

"A much better choice than that Brittany girl," Oswald said bitterly.

"If it wasn't for her going behind my back, I would have kept her. Instead...well, I had to fire her."

"You shot her in the face."

"She went behind my _back_ , Oz. It seemed to be the only logical thing to do. If I hadn't caught her before, I would have been neck-deep in betrayal from the other Families."

"You couldn't predict that."

"No, you're right. But I wasn't about to let it happen, if it _could_ happen," Sylvia said darkly. "Brittany wasn't anywhere ready to take on this type of business; she was easily twisted by Drake Anderson—"

"—Yet another, you've killed—"

"—He also went behind my back!"

"I'm sensing a pattern here."

"Sweetie, you know if I had any other alternative, I would have taken it," Sylvia said defensively. "I loved her like a sister. But Brittany _chose_ to go behind my back—she wasn't asked to or forced to do it. And she was going to use _my_ brother's file to undermine me, to undermine _us_ , and I simply wouldn't have it."

"And killing the youngest Anderson?"

"He was a misogynistic asshole. If I hadn't killed him, someone would have."

"What exactly did he do that warranted a death sentence?"

"He tried convincing the other Families to go against me, as you very well know."

"Honey, I doubt any of them would've been persuaded by someone as ditsy as that woman."

"I'm not saying that they would have. They believed that Drake Anderson wouldn't have been able to sway the other families to do as they're told."

"So, killing Drake was...?"

" _Warranted_ ," Sylvia answered, looking at him offensively. "If I hadn't, he would still be planting seeds of treachery and then _you_ would have to deal with him. Personally, I think it all paid out in the end. He wouldn't have been able to lead the families, and even if he could have, someone would have rebelled against him, leading to his death _anyway_. His demise was inevitable."

"You honestly think that someone would have stood up to him, if he'd taken control?"

"Of course."

"Why?" He asked, genuinely curious.

"While you were still under Strange's manipulation, _I_ was in control. I've gained a lot of respect from people, you know. In between running my club and keeping the Underworld out of the hands of people like _Tabitha Galavan,_ I was also juggling my brother's problems. Through all of that, I'm certain I'd have gained enough friends, who would have taken down Drake Anderson the _moment_ he dared to contest you, me, or anyone else that's on our side."

Oswald considered this, and seeing her side of things, he hadn't anything else to debate.

In the time where Elijah Van Dahl had still been alive and Oswald was under Strange's brainwashing, she had proven herself more than ten times over that she was capable of ruling by herself. It not only reassured Oswald that if something ever happened to him that his kingdom would still be in good hands, but the revelation had also allowed room in his mind for a single, suspicious inkling: If he and Sylvia were no longer together, she had enough power and loyalty from the captains and foot soldiers to silence what voice he had.

If it was Sylvia's wish, Oswald could be turned out and left with nothing but himself.

Now, _that_ was a scary thought. Not titillating in the least.

"Do you need any more staff?"

He had to force the petty thought out of his head….after all, she loved him far too much to do such a treacherous thing.

He was already feeling remorse for having been gone as long as he had while Sylvia had kept the kingdom from toppling over his in absence. Now, he was already imagining her betrayal? How little he must have thought of her for a terrible thought to even put its foot through the door!

"I think I have enough," Sylvia returned contentedly, nodding her head as she observed the club's active conversation. "I'm working at full capacity. There might be room enough for another bouncer if the Regulars don't start behaving themselves, but it's quaint for the moment."

"If you find yourself short-staffed—"

"I know I can always come to my boss."

Oswald and Sylvia exchanged amused expressions prior to Butch entering the conversation with a full plate. He offered them a chicken wing each; both politely declined.

The amusement between Oswald and Sylvia settled on a single notion: all-in-all, she preferred to be his subservient for mainly two reasons: A) She liked it...she even admitted that she got off on the idea of just working for him. And B) While Sylvia was a great leader, and had clearly proven herself to be successful in any managerial position—whatever the circumstance—she did _not_ want to lead 24/7.

So, while even though Oswald guiltily suspected that Sylvia could kick him out of his own kingdom, the knowledge of Sylvia not wanting to rule predominantly was what settled his paranoia. That, and her love for him outweighed any hunger she might have for power.

Shortly after Delilah had left and reported the finding of Strange's monster to Jim, she'd come back and smiled plainly as she stood beside Sylvia.

"Did Jim…?"

Delilah nodded as she reassured her, "He seemed happy enough to go after the thing."

"Good. You didn't call the police, did you?"

"No, ma'am."

"Good girl." Sylvia praised, patting the girl's back.

"Even if I had, what good would it have done anyway?" Delilah responded, smiling cynically at Oswald and Butch, who shared her skepticism.

Sylvia asked her, "What's on your schedule for the rest of the day?"

"Just business."

"Don't you have a date or something?" Butch asked, looking at Delilah.

"Fuck, no." She answered coolly. "Have _you_ tried dating in this city? It's a goddamn madhouse."

"Well, I can tell you've been hanging around Liv a lot," Butch muttered. "You've got the mouth for it."

"I had the mouth before I ever applied for this job—you can bet your ass on _that_ , buddy."

With a flick of her raven hair to prove a point, Delilah left the circle so she could scold one of the bartenders who had unwittingly left the cash box out for anyone to take. Her shrill voice wasn't easily ignored.

Oswald said pointedly, "Well, she certainly has the personality for the job."

" _You're a fucking moron_!" Delilah insulted the bartender.

"Excuse me." Sylvia pardoned, forcing a smile.

Butch and Oswald watched Sylvia dismiss the bartender who, with a great sigh of relief, quickly left his post so she could reprimand Delilah for berating the staff.

"The learning curve is high in this place," Butch cared to note.

Oswald didn't acknowledge him with a response. At some point, Delilah was remorseful and to Sylvia's satisfaction, the young lady called the bartender over and apologized for her coarse criticisms. Shortly after, Sylvia rejoined the circle and smiled happily at Butch and Oswald.

"How's your training with Bell?" asked Butch curiously.

"Mr. Bell has been under the weather." Sylvia answered, rubbing her sore neck. "I think he might've caught some kind of flu when he went home for the summer."

"Where did he go?"

"Nebraska."

"Who's there?"

"He has two grandchildren," Sylvia explained. "A little girl and a boy. Contrary to what I may seem, I _do_ let my staff go home and see their families."

"No one said—"

Oswald smiled amusedly: "She's just teasing, Butch. Settle down."

Butch cleared his throat, obviously trying to hide how quickly he'd become defensive.

Sylvia said lightly, "Since he's come back from Nebraska, he's been coughing, sneezing—the works. Last night, he could barely stand to make soup."

"He couldn't cook?"

"No, Butch. He couldn't _stand_."

"Oh..."

"And since he can't stand, I didn't think it was reasonable to make him train me. Personally, I think it's just a facade. He's running out of things to teach me, so he's pretending to be sick to bide his time."

"Do you plan on disposing him? Once he has nothing else to teach you, are you firing him?"

"Why would I do that?" Sylvia questioned, clearly offended. "He's more than just my trainer or a manservant. He's a _friend_."

"Well, after what you did to Brittany—"

"Let's not argue _here._ " Oswald interrupted, before she could irately respond. "Butch, why don't you get ready to leave? We have more business to conduct before time gets away from us. Hmm?"

Butch nodded and he left the club. Oswald watched him go then looked at Sylvia, who was mildly irritated. She drank the rest of her champagne and sat it on the table nearest to them, before she turned to him inquisitively.

"'Business'? What business?"

"I told you what happened after I found the bus that was allegedly carrying Strange, didn't I?"

"Yeah, you said Fish came up behind you. Scared the crap out of you. You fainted, and she—for whatever reason—spared your life."

"I'm still looking for her," Oswald explained. He placed two hands on the top of his cane, adding, "Her sudden disappearance has been unsettling."

"Well, this is a woman you killed. I'm sorry…. 'killed'," Sylvia said with an impish grin. "Sure, it's a little irksome, but if you didn't find it unsettling, I'd be _more_ concerned with your need for self-preservation."

"Don't poke fun, Pigeon."

"Fine. Fine." She raised her hands at shoulder-level. "I'm done joking. So, you don't know where she is. What business are you tending to?"

"I'll be pulling all my resources. From the Families to the Narrows—someone will have seen her."

"I could talk to Jim."

"Don't."

"Excuse me?"

Oswald stepped closer to Sylvia, who looked at him with a reproachful expression.

"I know you love him. He's your brother—"

"—And _your_ brother-in-law, don't forget—"

"—Believe me, I haven't." Oswald more than reassured, although his tone had a hint of disparagement.

"He would know better than anyone else where Fish could be. Yet, you don't want me to talk to him?"

"Anytime you two are together, you _somehow_ get pulled into whatever chaos he is facing. There will come a day when he needs you, and being the caring sibling that you are, you will go to help him, and more than likely end up in a much more dangerous situation you won't be able to get out of. When that day comes, you'll leave, but you will not come back."

"You're worried." Sylvia noted, unable to hide her smile. "After all this time, you're still worrying about me?"

"Your safety is one of my deepest concerns."

"And that's all nice and everything, but—"

"—I'll be blunt. With Strange's monsters lurking around, I don't want you anywhere near your brother."

Sylvia's smile disappeared.

"Oz, you're not going to keep me from seeing my family."

"I _am_ your family—"

"—Well, so is _he_." She argued, stepping a foot closer to Oswald. "You may be my husband, and you _may_ be my boss, but I'm not going to stand here and let _you_ decide when or when I can't see my own brother."

"Pigeon—"

"Don't you 'Pigeon' me. That's not going to work."

"I'm only looking out for y—"

"—I know—"

"—your safety is my top priority—"

"—I'm going to be fine!"

"Eventually, you're going to get hurt—"

"—You're _not_ going to tell me what I can or can't do—"

" **Someone has to**!" Oswald shouted.

In that moment, the pianist/comic had stopped riffing about airline food, and the entire audience within the club silenced. And in that moment, Sylvia appeared as though she might blow a gasket; her eyes brightened and narrowed.

If Oswald had been anyone else, they'd be dead.

"Get out." Sylvia said lowly.

Oswald realized what he'd said the instant he had said it. And he'd never regretted a decision more than he did at this very moment.

"Sylvia..."

"I said. Get. Out." Sylvia ordered dangerously, enunciating every letter as she pointed to the door.

Sensing that there was no way of getting past her cold disposition, Oswald relented and left the club, albeit in a huff. He figured if she was going to respond to him in such a way, he'd do the same.

Sylvia glanced at the comic, who waited for further orders. She nodded and the audience went back to laughing, talking, the like. Meanwhile, she closed herself inside her office, sitting at her desk.

What the hell had just happened?

First, she and Oswald were having an amusing discussion, and then...what, Oswald cared about her safety to the point he was recommending that she not hang around Jim quite as much because he naturally attracted danger.

Oswald hadn't been wrong.

Sylvia _knew_ Jim was dangerous. He, himself, was a softy, but the fact of the matter was that Jim would no doubt be running into monsters—he was a heat seeking missile for chaos. Oswald just worried for her so much that he was strongly recommending (and wasn't that all he was doing, really) to stay away from Jim just while Strange's monsters were out and about.

And how did she react?

Sylvia rubbed her face.

Clearly, she hadn't recuperated in general. She was still tired, still thinking that she had to control every aspect of the empire as though she was still running it solo. Oswald was back in the game now, so she should have lost that suspicious drive.

He was right, in a way.

No one told her where to go or what to do—Sylvia was headstrong, stubborn as a mule, and she was completely independent. She protected Jim and Oswald from anything, anyone, but then who protected _her_ from _herself_?

Sylvia had felt that Oswald was trying to control her in a way that she vowed never to be controlled again. It as was though she'd been forced into the same situation when she was a younger woman, walking on egg shells, pretending to be happy when she wasn't, telling people that the bruises on her arms and legs were from falling down the stairs.

All of those strong emotions had come so quickly that Sylvia couldn't see that Oswald was just trying to protect her from her own idiocy. And how did she respond? She'd ordered him to get out of her own club.

"Good job, Sylvia. Good job," She muttered, rubbing her temples. "Goddamn it."

* * *

It was well past ten when Sylvia glanced at the clock above the door. In the past five hours, she had paid off the captains who docked the ports, those of whom regularly transported drugs (cocaine, heroin, that sort of thing). Sylvia had emphasized the importance of keeping it out of the reach of children this time; she didn't think she'd have to reiterate the point, but some of the sailors had selective amnesia, apparently.

After she had finished conducting her business with them, she'd made friends with a few street kids. A bargain was made; as long as their parents didn't know that they were working for her, the children received money for doing what all children should do: play, and stay off drugs.

Some of the children didn't have parents. One of them was Ivy Pepper, whom Sylvia had previously been introduced to back when Barbara was still housing her and Selina Kyle.

It seemed like ages ago. Ivy Pepper had become something of a spy for her. While the little girl wasn't as quick or clever as her feline-like counterpart, that's the main reason why Sylvia liked her. From one redhead to another, they understood each other.

After settling a bargain with Ivy in general (the little girl was scrappier than Sylvia had figured), she then balanced the books while Delilah finished cleaning up the bar. There had been a total of two bar fights, all of which included beer bottles being thrown, chairs being broken, and an assortment of light fixtures were blown out when one riled customer's gun went off.

Dagger and Chilly, her two primary bouncers as well as bruisers, pushed the two uncivilized guests out, but that led to another hour of upkeep.

* * *

" _Vee."_

When she peered up from her books, she saw that it was Jim who had spoken. Odd how she hadn't heard him coming a mile away...then again, Dagger and Chilly had been dismissed a few hours ago, along with Delilah.

At this hour, Sylvia was the only one burning the midnight oil. Well, herself and it looked like her brother, who wore the same thing he had since seeing her on stage.

"What are you doing here?" She questioned flatly, as she lowered her eyes back to her books. Scribbling a few words.

"You're still here."

"Yes, I am."

"Why?"

"I'm running a business. While it's normally fun and games, it's actually very time-consuming. Of course, for someone who has never owned a club, I hardly expect you to understand that." Sylvia sneered. "Or anything that has anything to do with my day-to-day life when it doesn't revolve around people like _you_."

Then she paused.

Jim stared at her. He was a bit taken back by her acidic tone. Seeing that Sylvia was just as surprised, Jim walked completely into the room, and closed the door to her office. After, he took a seat in the armchair that was placed opposite of her, folded his arms over the back, sitting in the chair in reverse.

"I figured once Penguin took over, you'd be a lot easier to get along with." He said coolly.

"I'm just tired."

"Is that all?"

"I'm a little irritated." Sylvia admitted, still trying to balance her books. "Two fuckers practically _ruined_ my club, and—as always—I'm picking up after them."

"You run a club. You pick up after everyone. Then again, I've never owned one. So, what would I know about it?" Jim said, reiterating her cold words.

Sylvia's eyes lifted up to meet his.

"There's something else irritating you."

"Have you ever considered it's just _you_?"

"I have, but I doubt I'm the reason you're bitter."

"Perhaps you're just blind."

"Blind, maybe, but I have at least one eye open." Jim said wittingly. "And if you want to know my opinion—"

"—I'm fairly certain I don't—"

"—You're not angry at _me_."

Sylvia gave him her full attention, putting her pen on the surface of the desk and leaning back in her chair with a small revelation.

"Fine." She sniffed. "Maybe I'm _not_ angry at you. So, what do you want?"

"Talk to me, Vee."

"Talk about _what_?"

"You and Penguin had a fight." Jim suspected. "You've got all the signs of a bad argument."

"I don't…."

"Don't insult me. I know better than anyone what the bad end of an argument looks like. Don't act like I don't know you back when we were kids." Jim said, smiling despite his knowledge that Sylvia was hurting. "Come on...Talk to me."

Sylvia crossed her arms grumpily, looking anywhere but at him. What are the odds that the tables would turn on her? Normally, she was the one encouraging Jim to speak, and tell her what had him all upset. He'd normally resist until he could see no other way around it. And here they were…

"Do you remember," She said quietly, "back when you found out that Oswald and I were together?"

Jim nodded.

"You and him were always at odds with each other. Somehow, I always felt like I was in the middle of it."

"Of course, I remember. Why does that matter?"

"I'm having that feeling again."

"Really? Why?" Jim asked, his eyebrows knitting together in concern. Sensing the seriousness of the discussion, he stood, twisted the chair back to its normal position and sat in it like a normal human being. "What happened?"

"He asked me not to be around you anymore." Sylvia admitted, gritting her teeth as she remembered the conversation from earlier this afternoon.

"Oswald, you mean?"

"Yes. He told me that he didn't want me to hang around you."

Coolly, Jim asked, "And why did he tell you that?"

Sylvia was surprised he didn't throw a piece of furniture or lash out in anger. Not being a cop must have simmered him down some.

"He fears for my safety. While you're out, hunting monsters, he doesn't want you anywhere near me."

"I'd have to agree."

" _What_?"

"Vee...I like having you around. Especially since you're someone I can count on, who gets things done. While Strange's monsters are wandering around, it's probably best that you and I don't make as much contact—at least not until all them have been found."

Sylvia stared at him. Completely speechless. She hadn't expected Jim to say that.

"You're taking his side?" She questioned incredulously, pointing to the door which indicated Oswald.

"That's what he wanted, right?" Jim clarified. "To keep you safe? If that's what he wants, then I say, do what he's asked."

"How can you stand there and tell me to stay away from you? You're my fucking brother. My blood—"

"And I'm dangerous."

"You'resoft! _You_ aren't dangerous, you just attract danger. We _both_ do." She snapped, standing up. "So you get in trouble _sometimes_. So I _happen_ to get caught up in the trouble when I try to help—it never bothered Oswald before, so why does it bother him now?"

"I think it has always bothered him. But he cares about you. And he doesn't want to get in between us. But he's right."

"So what, you're just going to agree with him, take _his_ side?"

Jim chuckled, appearing surprised by her aggressive response: "Vee, I'm not taking _anyone's_ side."

"It doesn't matter," She snarled, ignoring him. "I'll do _what_ I want, _when_ I want! Neither you nor Oswald are going to stand there and tell me what I should or shouldn't do. If I want to put my life in danger, I'll fucking put my life in danger. Neither of you would be able to stop me!"

"No one's stopping you from doing _anything_!" Jim retorted, standing as well. "What the hell is the matter with you?"

"I don't know! I'm pissed off!"

Jim rubbed his face and said, "What are we even arguing about?"

"I DON'T KNOW!" Sylvia shouted, and she threw her pen at him. "You're the one who just _barges_ in whenever he feels like it!"

"I didn't barge in..."

"Did you fucking knock! I don't think so—"

"—Why are you yelling!"

" _You're yelling_!"

"Because you're yelling at _me_!" Jim snarled.

Sylvia and Jim were separated by the desk, but barely. Both of them were baring their teeth, snarling each other like two mutts fighting over scraps. As though they realized what they looked like, and how they were behaving, Jim and Sylvia alike stepped back, and took a breather.

Jim brushed a hand through his hair while Sylvia crossed her arms, feeling more irritated than she'd started out.

"Okay…okay..." Jim mumbled. He looked at her: "Tell me what Oswald said _exactly_."

"He said that while Strange's monsters are lurking around, he didn't want me anywhere near you. We started arguing, and I told him that no one was going to tell me what to do. He said 'someone has to'. I wasn't going to take that kind of talk in my club so I ordered him to leave."

Jim scratched his forehead, saying, "It sounds like you two got into a marital scrap. That's all."

"Oh, really. Is _that_ all?" Sylvia scolded. "Don't think I know that?"

"Well, you _are_ argumentative by nature. Anyone in Gotham can attest to that."

"'Attest'? I'm not on fucking trial, _Jim._ He was going to stand there and tell me who I can or can't talk to? Fuck that. Been there, done that—I swore I would never get myself into that situation again. What would come next then, huh? Isolate me from my family, take hold of all my financial assets? Next, he'll fucking hit me. I wasn't going to be one of those women again—not since the last one. I won't, Jim—I _won't_!"

Jim stared at her.

Sylvia didn't have the best relationships known to man. She'd kissed a great deal of nasty frogs before finding Oswald Cobblepot. Granted, the man wasn't as gold and shiny as Jim would have wanted her first husband to be, but at least he never laid a hand on her.

While it had been a long time since Sylvia had been in such an abusive relationship, the pain of it might have gone, but there were still remnants of it there. Most people wouldn't be able to see it, but for those who had gotten close enough to Sylvia to see her soul, there was a nasty scar from where she'd endured it.

Hearing anything close to being told who she could or couldn't be with...Jim was certain that had been Sylvia's trigger, and it brought back the anger of her former self. Maybe Oswald had known that too, but things said in anger always came out the wrong way. And Sylvia...as argumentative and fiery as she was by nature...was an unstoppable fire. Once the match was struck, everything burned.

"Vee." Jim sighed, walking towards her. "I wasn't there for the argument. So I can't say whether you or Oswald were either right or wrong, but you...I _really_ don't think that's what Oswald meant."

"Again, you're taking his side?"

"I'm not taking anyone's side. I honestly think you overreacted—"

"— _ **Overreacted**_ —"

"— _Yes_ , you overreacted, but—"

"—Get the fuck out of my office, James. _I don't_ _ **need**_ _this_!"

"Will you just _listen_ for a moment and stop talking!" Jim shouted.

Sylvia stared at him.

Rage filled her entire being; there wasn't a part of her that was calm. Her blood boiled, her mind was fuzzy. Yet, something pulled at her to listen to her brother. Some part of her that wasn't furious beyond any reasonable doubt...it beckoned.

"Oswald is a lot of things," Jim said, eyes widening and eyebrows raising when he thought of all the things that man had been capable of in the past. "But I really, really, _really_ doubt that he's the type to tell you what to do. Even as your boss…He knows you're independent, and you'll do as you please—God knows you're more bullheaded than _me_. And that's saying something, don't you think?"

Sylvia smiled involuntarily.

Jim continued: "No one is telling you what to do, how to act, or who you can or can't be with. The reason I agree with Oswald is that Strange's monsters are _monsters_. One almost killed me the other night, and this one that the little girl told me about—"

"—Delilah—"

"—That's the one. That one almost killed me too. Oswald is looking after you. I have to give him credit; not even _I_ would have told you what to do or that you shouldn't be around me. That took a lot of guts."

"But Jim..."

"You're my little sister. No matter how many pounds you can bench press, or how old you get, you'll always be that. And it's my job to look after you. Oswald and I had an understanding: we would bend over backwards to make sure you're taken care of." Jim reassured. "Now you need to do _your_ part. When one of us asks you to stay away, it's not because we're jealous or trying to control you. It's because you _need_ to stay back."

Sylvia frowned.

While she was still unhappy with whatever the arrangement Oswald and Jim had formed only-god-knows when or where, this seemed to pacify her. And like a fire being extinguished, her temper flared only a few times before being extinguished too.

"Now..." Jim said as he hugged his sister. "There's something else I need to tell you."

Dreading the worst, she muttered, "What…."

"It's almost eleven o'clock."

"What does that matter?"

"If I know Oswald as well as I think I do, he's still up, waiting for you to come home." Jim said with a deeply measured tone. "Something tells me that if you don't get home by midnight, he'll be sending an army."

"You've got a point."

"Wow, I can't believe you agree with me."

"Sometimes, you're right. Other times..."

"Hey, hey!" Jim warned, but allowed himself a smile. "Let me _enjoy_ my moment, okay? Before you stomp all over it."

Sylvia chuckled as Jim wrapped his arm around her shoulder. They started walking out of the office, then the club.

Jim glanced at the cracked chair, saying, "Who are you going to send the bill to?"

"Hmm?"

"To cover the damage."

"I thought about sending it to you, since you're racking up the money for bringing in those monsters. How's the GCPD paying you—does Barnes know?"

"Yeah, Barnes knows."

"By the sound of your voice, I'm guessing he's not happy about it?"

"He wants me to be a cop."

"What's stopping you?"

"I get to sleep in, get up when I want, and drink when I like, and I don't have Barnes breathing over my shoulder." Jim explained.

"If you ever want to completely step over your boundary line, I'll be in need of a bouncer soon," Sylvia said slyly.

"Is that a job offer?"

"Mm-hmm."

"As much as I like hanging out with you, Vee, I don't think it would work out, me working for you."

"I pay well."

"That's not what I'm talking about."

"You still want to be a cop, don't you?"

"Eventually. I won't ruin my chances by working at your club. I'm sure you'd be a great boss though."

"Watch that mouth of yours, Jim. I'm a _fantastic_ boss." Sylvia said, smirking at him. "You could throw a rock at anyone in Gotham and still not get a better boss than me."

"Considering most of them work for you—I'm thinking that's about right."

"Wow. You're right twice in a row."

"I know," Jim chuckled. "I'm on fire."

They walked to her car.

"I don't know how I'm going to make it up to him," Sylvia muttered as she opened her car door. "I think I wounded him."

Jim stood on the opposite side of the door with his arms folded parallel with the frame.

"Make-up sex?" He suggested.

Sylvia stared at him, and said suspiciously, "Are you _really_ Jim Gordon?"

"In the flesh, Vee. Why are you looking at me like that?"

"My brother frantically avoids referring to anything sexual around me. Suggesting I win my husband's affection with make-up sex is the opposite of what he'd suggest."

Jim said honestly, "Look, I still don't like the idea of you and Penguin being together, but if it's going to be a constant pain in my backside, I'd rather it be a well-oiled machine. Plus, when it comes down to it, Penguin's the only reason you don't go bat-shit crazy and destroy the entire city. If the two of you break up, I honestly don't know how I'll keep you from destroying Gotham."

"You're saying Oswald controls me?"

"Before your temper flares up again, _no_. That's not what I'm saying."

"Then what _are_ you saying?"

"In a world where you're a brush fire and everyone else is either dried grass or gasoline, he's the only one standing in a lake, holding up a bottle of Aloe." Jim said bluntly.

"That's the sincerest thing you've ever said about us. That was really goddamn poetic," Sylvia said, putting a hand over her heart. "Did Strange's truth serum stay in your system or something?"

"Nah. I just get tired of lying to you."

"Another confession by the infamous James Gordon. How lucky am I."

"That's all you're getting. Good night, Vee."

"Are you heading home?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Be careful."

"You too."

They hugged once more and Sylvia watched him jog to the bridge. Sylvia got in her car and headed home. She'd find a way to make it up to Oswald. After all, he was just looking after her.


	6. Strongest Of All, Weakened By One

Chapter Six: Strongest of All, Weakened By One

* * *

As one could have expected, the door to the Van Dahl mansion was unlocked. Oswald still had expected her to come home; a lot sooner, perhaps...but there it was. If he hadn't been contrite, he would have left the door locked. Alas, here it was, not so. Anyone and their brother could have come into the mansion and rob him blind (not that many would have even dared do something so foolish). Quietly, Sylvia entered and closed the door with the softest 'click'. She put her coat on the stand behind it, and then walked completely inside.

A small sound of someone stoking the fire alerted her to a presence in the living room. She leaned against the wall in relief when she noticed that it was Mr. Bell, who was squatted in front of the mantle, trying to revive the dying fire. He wore a maroon-colored bathrobe, fire-engine red wool cap, and matching pajamas.

"Mr. Bell. You're out of bed."

Her voice vaguely startled the manservant, but Mr. Bell was smiling when he peered over his shoulder at her.

"Oh, dear. It appears that I've been discovered," He joked, straightening to his full height. However, when he did, a grimace of pain hedged his expression of amusement in the slightest way.

Sylvia pretended not to notice. A comment on Mr. Bell's age wouldn't have boosted his ego; he was nearing the age of fifty; his physical prowess had prolonged the inevitable deterioration of age, and so far the only issue seemed to be his immune system, which evidently had lacked the proper discipline to keep him from getting sick. But even for a man nearing fifty, he looked like he was in a greater deal of pain than he let on.

"Are you feeling better?" Sylvia asked as she pulled off her gloves one finger at time, and placed them on the end table nearest to the couch. "You seem like it, at least."

"I was down for the count, but I'm back to my usual self. If I may ask, why are you home so late?"

Almost coyly, she responded, "Were you expecting me?"

"Personally, I thought you were already in bed. So, one can only see why I was so startled when I heard you coming through the front door," Mr. Bell explained, smiling a little. He noticed that she was still wearing what she'd worn on the way out earlier this morning, and his brow furrowed. "Why _are_ you home so late?"

"I had business to take care of at the club."

He looked at the clock sitting on the mantle of the fire place: it was a few minutes past midnight.

"Is Oz still up?"

"He went to bed, as far as I know it."

"I'm going to check on him."

"Did you two have an argument?"

Sylvia halted in mid-step, turning on her heel to look at him: "Why do you ask that?"

Mr. Bell smiled knowingly, saying, "I've seen the extent of Mr. Cobblepot's temper, I dare say. But there's always an intricate difference in his tantrums. How he behaves post-temper severely depends on whether he was made furious by his cronies or by your doing, my lady. That said, he was particularly grumpier than usual this afternoon."

"How would you know that, seeing as you were supposed to be in bed? The doctor said 'one week'. Not 'six days'."

"I feel a lot better, milady," Mr. Bell reassured. He glanced below the mantle, adding, "I can't say the same for this lamentable excuse for a fire."

"There's more wood in the back...And I don't care if you feel better, Mr. Bell. The doctor _said_ …."

"I am ten times better. I know my health more than that old flatulent hack," Mr. Bell argued, albeit in a good humor. "I could do five cartwheels and a front flip over the Golden Gate Bridge to prove that I have never felt better. Should I prove myself to you now or later in the morning?"

Sylvia resigned, "Don't bother. I believe you."

"Now that my health has been thoroughly discussed, I'd like to know if I am correct in my presumption. You and Mr. Cobblepot _did_ have a little disagreement?"

Sylvia gave him a look and that made Mr. Bell grin knowingly. He didn't even need a verbal confirmation when it came to her; she could convey a thousand conversations with her facial expressions alone.

"Well, I'm sure whatever the disagreement, you and Mr. Cobblepot will work it out." He said confidently. "Now, do excuse me, milady. I'm going to fetch more firewood. It's colder than Antarctica in this place."

He bowed to the waist. Straightening, he tried hiding a grimace of pain, which Sylvia decided to ignore. He then left shortly to the back of the mansion.

Sylvia watched him, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. She'd surely see Mr. Bell live to the age of 100, rolling around in a wheel chair and being partly supported by a ventilator, and he'd still vow that he could do a front flip over that damn bridge. But that's one of the reasons she liked him; he was feisty, turning fifty years old in another few months. Fifty years old going on sixty, if he wasn't careful enough.

* * *

The bedroom door was cracked open. Just enough for her to peek through into the dark space. As she opened the door gingerly, Sylvia noticed that Oswald was lying on _his_ side of the bed, not sprawled out or anything. Then again, he never really took up much of the bed space, anyway. There was a bottle of Jim Beam Bourbon Whiskey, sitting on the end table; a small glass beside it; what was left of the ice had melted to the bottom, diluting the usual rich, caramel-colored alcohol to a pale brown.

A pang of guilt made Sylvia wince. Had their argument caused so much turmoil that Oswald had to switch to something stronger in order to dull the stronger emotions? Forget the fact that he'd sought out the cheaper stuff in the cabinets.

For all his strengths of charisma, influence, ambitions, and otherwise skill of manipulation, Sylvia would frequently forget that Oswald was an emotional man. It was not a secret that they both had tempers the size of Texas. While Sylvia was given more to impulse, Oswald was far more controlled by his emotions—particularly those that centered around his feelings towards her.

Mr. Bell had noted that Oswald's temper varied by a slight degree. Whether he was furious at his flunkies for messing up on a contract, or what-have-you, he could kill a man and then be peachy as pie a moment after. However, to Mr. Bell's credit, he had been right. When Oswald and Sylvia argued and if the conflict wasn't resolved at that particular moment, Oswald's temper could fester into an emotional roller coaster. Who knows how many people he snapped at, or calls he had rejected while their conversation bubbled up and repeated like a washing cycle over and over in his head.

The night had progressed normally for Sylvia as she had balanced her finances. Meanwhile, Oswald was going over the conversation several hundred times, no doubt wondering if he could take back what he'd said. It had compelled him to open the bottle of bourbon, a way to get to sleep so his mind and heart would cease fire.

Sylvia walked to his side of the bed, capped the bottle, and took the glass in the other hand. She momentarily left the room to put both in the kitchen before returning to the bedroom, closing the door silently. Just as cat-like quiet as she had been when she walked, she undressed, and then pulled a night slip over her head. During this time, she contemplated Jim's suggestion.

 _Make-up sex._

It was a good idea...but the question was: Once Oswald woke up, would he even be in the mood to 'do the do' as it were?

Come to think of it, Sylvia had never woken him up with sex before. A kiss, yes, but sex? That hadn't even entered her mind, surprisingly enough. And what if—by chance—when he did wake up, if he rejected her. If he'd fallen asleep angry, wouldn't logic dictate that he'd still be cross when he opened his eyes?

Well, that was a chance she had to take, huh?

Sylvia slid under the covers, smiling when she saw that he was wearing his all-black pajama shirt and pants. He slept on his back, hands on his chest.

"Sweet baby." She uttered lovingly.

She moved closer to him. Lying on her side, Sylvia tested his degree of consciousness, lightly tugging the hem of his shirt and slowly sliding her hand underneath. Her fingers grazed the bare skin of his stomach, then up to his chest. A small amount of excitement tickled her when she felt lean muscle definition beneath her fingertips.

Quelling the need to satisfy her sexual inhibitions too early on, Sylvia leaned into him, and ever so gently nuzzled Oswald's neck, kissing the skin just below his ear lobe and above his neckline. His sweet spot.

Oswald moved in his sleep. His furrowed brow relaxed, and his hands moved to his sides. Sylvia smiled in satisfaction. He wasn't in such a deep sleep that he couldn't respond to her, but odds are, whatever she was doing was somehow finding its way into his dreams.

"This will be a dream you won't forget." Sylvia whispered, grinning from ear-to-ear.

She hooked one leg around his, anchoring him to the bed on his back. No need for him to turn on his side, after all. Sylvia had him just where she needed him. She laid her head along the crook of his neck, sliding one arm under his pillow; the other remained under his shirt. Her fingers drew invisible designs over his chest and stomach, just lightly enough to be present.

"I know you were just looking after me," Sylvia mumbled remorsefully. "I know that, now. Even after all these years...I guess I'm still not used to that. You can understand better than anyone, can't you?"

Oswald let out a soft 'mmm'. Whether that was an acknowledgement to her words or otherwise, Sylvia's grin widened when he did.

"We have one argument, and you're halfway through a bottle of bourbon." Sylvia mused. Her hand drifted downwards to the waistband of his pajamas. "I'm not certain if I should feel guilty about that…or a little flattered…" (She fiddled with it.) "…that you care so much."

She kissed his ear.

"I love you, Ozzie."

In saying so, she dipped her hand beneath the waistband of his pajama pants, and smiled when there was no barrier between them and his cock. He went without boxers….

"Well, well, well…." Sylvia drawled lowly in his ear. "Someone was expecting something tonight, wasn't he?"

Maybe the idea of make-up sex wasn't just a suggestion on her brother's part. Oswald was probably thinking along the same lines. It wasn't often that he would skip on looking his best…even when he was sleeping. He was always so prim and proper. But not tonight, it seemed.

And when she never came home (at least not while he was awake), Oswald decided that a shot of bourbon would get him to sleep just as quickly, although not as contently. Sylvia wasn't one-hundred percent sure that this had been his thought process, but considering how well she knew him…She'd bet her employees' lives on that wager.

Sylvia flattened her hand, and grazed her palm over the flaccid member, stroking him. As she did, she watched his face for any type of hint that he was waking up: his lips parted ever so lightly, and Sylvia smirked. Whether he knew it or not, his body was reacting to her touch.

She sat up, careful not to cause any abrupt disturbance. Just as slowly, she pushed his legs apart and sat between them, then she leaned over his body, and kissed his neck. He stirred again.

"I'm going to be really interested in seeing what you do when you wake up and see me sucking your cock," Sylvia sighed, and she kissed him gently on the lips before crawling back to her spot between his legs.

Lying on her stomach, Sylvia tugged at the waistband of his pajama bottoms down to the low V of his hips, shimmying them below his thighs. With his cock in her hand, she licked the tip, underneath it, and then as she swirled her tongue, slowly took him inside her mouth.

"Mmmm…"

It was the softest of sounds, but she heard his moan, and it set her insides ablaze. Sylvia lifted her eyes, smirking when his back slightly arched, and the way his face expressed confusion and bliss.

His mind was trying to make sense of it within a dream, while his body was happy to engage.

Sylvia hummed lowly, setting vibrations over the head and shaft of his cock. When his hips started to thrust, she locked her arms around his waist, keeping him still. She would go at her own pace. Not his.

The bed creaked as she re-positioned, getting to her knees while her tongue massaged him. When his cock was lathered with her saliva, she stroked him with her hand as she crawled to his side.

Once there, her lips briefly touched his. To her surprise and content, Oswald slowly returned it.

Sylvia watched his eyes open, and he looked at her, briefly confused, before putting his warm feelings and her presence together, solving the mystery.

"Good morning, sweetheart." Sylvia teased, grinning from ear-to-ear. She squeezed his cock in acknowledgement.

His hands lifted, tangling into her hair and he guided her head up to meet his, shoving his mouth against hers so hard, their teeth clicked. He kissed her with both passion and desperation. In between kisses, he begged, "Please, don't stop."

She stroked him harder, faster…his kisses became sloppy, like he couldn't keep up with her while she played with him. He was rock hard in her grip, and Sylvia sensed his alcohol-filled urgency.

While one hand satisfied his deeper urge, she used the other to pull down her underwear, slyly climbing out of them and then onto him. While Sylvia straddled his lap, Oswald looked up at her as though she was a goddess in human form, knowing what relief she was about to grant him, but also knowing how quickly this beautiful thing of a gift could be taken away.

His cock stood at attention without her help, and she took it between her legs, rubbing the head between the lips of her pussy, teasing her clit. Oswald reached up to touch her braless breasts, covered by the night slip. He licked his lips, his breathing quick and shallow.

"You want this?" Sylvia asked sweetly, slowly teasing his cock with her wetness.

"Please…."

"Please _what_?"

Oswald sat up, and she allowed him to kiss her passionately. His soft moans vibrating inside her mouth, proving to her how eager he was. His hands groped her breasts, then her ass, doing what was necessary to persuade her.

"You want to be inside me, don't you, Oswald?" Sylvia asked, her soft lips against his.

She lifted her hips, rubbing his cock against her tight entrance, teasing. She felt his cockhead slip through, and suddenly every part of her was just as desperate for him to be inside. She didn't wait for an answer. She mounted him, sinking herself onto him, balls deep. They both let out a deep sigh of content before Sylvia started grinding on him, swirling her hips so she could feel every inch of his swollen dick inside of her.

When she wasn't going fast enough, drunk or not, Oswald let out a sharp sigh of frustration, and bucked his hips so hard that Sylvia lost her balance and fell on her back. She smirked when Oswald was instantly on top of her, separating her legs so he could move in between them.

"Oz, what—"

"Don't try to stop me."

Sylvia was undoubtedly stronger than him. If she wanted, she could throw him across the room. In spite of her physical prowess, Sylvia couldn't push him away. He was the only person that could ever make her feel so weak and so powerless—but it was a feeling she craved.

Seeing this was so, Oswald's dominating side came forth. He grabbed her wrists, pinning them to the mattress on either side of her head and as he kissed her, his cock thrust back inside.

" _Fuck_ …."

The swear didn't come from her. It came from _him_. Hearing him swear made Sylvia's heart pick up a few beats, and her cunt tightened around him. She was so ready…she could come at any moment.

"Baby, I'm…fuck, I'm so close..." Sylvia whimpered.

Hearing her desperate plea, Oswald moved faster, harder. Her cunt tightened around him, her walls contracting, and she damn near screamed. He covered her mouth with his hand; when her wetness clenched around him for a tenth time, his own climax erupted. He bit down on her shoulder, and Sylvia keened.

Slowly, the erotic bliss ebbed away, leaving the two lovers in content. Slowly, Oswald pulled out of her, a smug little smile tugging at the corner of his lips when she let out a soft, reluctant moan. He lied beside her, breathless, but satisfied. In all honesty, he was still slightly drunk, but his approaching sobriety wouldn't leave him any less content than he was now.

Sylvia sat up, feeling her thighs shake even as she was still recovering. After enough time had lapsed where both could catch their breath, the silence was broken.

"I'm sorry for what I said." Oswald said quietly, looking at her from his back.

She looked at him, meeting his eyes.

"And I'm sorry I told you to get out of the club."

Oswald brushed a hand through his hair and sat up, leaning his back against the headboard. His pajamas were ruffled from their love-making, and Sylvia's night slip was wrinkled. Seeing one another as such, they cracked a smile.

"You know, all I want is for you to be safe." Oswald said softly. Doubt suddenly plagued him and he looked at her uncertainly. "You know that…Don't you?"

"Of course, I do. That's not what made me angry."

"You have to admit, you _do_ put your life in danger any time you're with your brother."

"You've never said anything before."

"If I had, would it have changed anything?"

"Probably not…."

Oswald moved closer to her and Sylvia smiled when he held her hand.

"But, you know…I don't have to tell you the type of men I've been with before you. You've seen what they were like. They were controlling, possessive—You can't just tell me stuff like that. I know what you said came from a good place…Now that I'm _calm_ , I understand."

"But you like being told what to do…."

"I like being your _employee_. But there's a fine line there. You are more than welcome to tell me who I have to kill, rob, or what-have-you. You and I see eye-to-eye on most things anyway, so there's nothing you can tell me that I will disagree with…ever. But I'm not just your employee, either. I'm your wife—and we can argue about which wine is better with steak, and whose turn it is to tell Mr. Bell that he has to clean the kitchen again….by the way, it's your turn…."

Oswald let out a breathy laugh, happy that the tension was broken. Sylvia smiled at his response.

She added: "Jim means a lot to me. No one will keep me away from him if I have any say in it. But I appreciate you looking after me."

Oswald nodded, taking in this information as he considered her words.

"I assume I have some say in this?" He asked, almost comically.

She gestured to him to continue.

"Regardless of how others may revere you…You are single-handedly the most important person to me, Pigeon. That said, everything you do…anything you say….it resonates deeply with me."

"Is that why you went through half a bottle of bourbon?"

"Partly."

"'Partly'?" Sylvia repeated.

"Well…"

She smiled.

"Ozzie."

"Hmm?"

She sat on her knees, and took his hands in hers.

"I'm sorry that I upset you," She said gently. "I know you care for my safety. And I know—since the event with Maroni's men in the past—you've become overprotective, and that's what I love most about you."

"Why do I sense a 'but' coming on?"

"Because there _is_ a 'but'. My brother is a magnet for chaos. He always has been, always will be. There will never come a time that when he asks for my help that I'll turn him away. It puts my life in danger, sure, but that's kind of my baseline at this point." Sylvia said, shrugging a shoulder. "And I'd readily do the same thing for you. Just know that I will _always_ come back."

"And what happens when the day comes that you don't?"

"This is Gotham. People don't stay dead. I'll always come back to you, Oz. I'll always be here when you need me, and you can always count on me when you do. But for what it's worth…while Hugo Strange's monsters are out and about, I _will_ do my best to keep some distance between Jim and me so that it will give you some peace of mind."

Oswald's eyebrows raised in surprise. Sylvia noticed, and she laughed quietly.

"Why the sudden change of mind?" He asked as she lied on her back.

"I don't say it often, but…I was wrong. And you were right."

"About?"

"Sometimes, someone needs to tell me what to do." Sylvia confessed. "I do my best to protect you and Jim—I've trained with Mr. Bell for months. But for all my physical acquisitions I've gained from him, and all the shooting ranges and contracts I've gone to with Victor Zsasz, there's still one person that could disarm me.."

"Who are they?" Oswald asked suspiciously.

"More like 'she'."

"Pardon?"

"Me. I can protect you and Jim from everyone and their brother. But for whatever fucking reason, I can't protect me from myself. It's an existential dilemma, really." She mused, looking up at Oswald as she smiled. "Someone has to tell me when to back off. Whether it be you, or Jim."

"I suppose you're right."

"There's something else."

"'Else'?"

"Mm-hmm."

"What else?"

"Jim said something to me," Sylvia relinquished interestedly.

"When?"

"Earlier."

"Today?"

"Well, technically speaking, it would be 'last night', since it's morning."

"The time of day is irrelevant, Pet."

Sylvia crossed her arms: "Jim and I spoke last night. At my club."

"And what did he have to say?"

"Nothing much. But he mentioned something that I think you'd find most fascinating."

"Which is?"

Sylvia sat up and said with a languid smile, "He says that you're the only person that could stop me from destroying Gotham."

"Did he, now."

"Mm-hmm."

"How do you feel about that?"

"I think he's right." Sylvia uttered, kissing Oswald's cheek. "If I was holding a detonator that was connected to a bomb that could destroy Gotham, no one could stop me from pressing the button. At least, no one but you. You would be the only person who could get through to me."

"Why is that, I wonder."

"It's simple, really." Sylvia uttered softly. "Everything you do...anything you say….it resonates with me."

"Using my words."

"Because it's true. How do _you_ feel about that?"

"I feel honored." Oswald responded. He caressed her cheek in the palm of his hand, pressing his lips against hers so softly, she'd wondered if he really kissed her at all. "Actually, if I'm being honest, it's a little empowering."

"How so?"

"The strongest, fiercest woman in the world is weakened by me. If that's not an ego boost…"

"Shut up," Sylvia laughed, pushing him a little.

Oswald smiled at her happily.


	7. A Visit With Victor

Chapter Seven: A Visit With Victor

Author's Note: I treasure any moment when I can write Sylvia and Victor scenes.

* * *

In the three months that passed, Sylvia kept her word.

Neither she nor Jim met up that much in person, although they did keep in touch via telephone. Some of Strange's monsters had been caught, and while the psychiatrist was kept in an unfounded location, there were still plenty of his strays running a muck.

Despite that, _Lean on Vee's_ was prospering under Delilah's watchful gaze, giving Sylvia more time to handle other lucrative business.

On the outskirts of Gotham, she met up with Victor Zsasz, who offered to go halfsies on the contracts he performed outside of Penguin's scope. For the moment, it was just a small vacation from Gotham's chaotic world, and gave her time to discuss the comings and goings of day-to-day stuff. A business commute, perhaps, but on the whole: Sylvia just missed her work-husband.

As mentioned before, while Victor was employed by Penguin, he still did contracts on the side, namely for retired Mobster, Don Falcone. Sylvia wasn't quite so surprised to find that out; after all, Victor held a certain admiration and respect for him; it was something Victor had that Sylvia neither condemned nor condoned.

"What does he have you do anymore?" Sylvia asked as she walked side-by-side with the professional hitman.

They strolled some blocks away from a beach house, a location where Falcone was currently living. It was some ways away from the retired Don; Sylvia didn't want to operate under his eye; it would be awkward doing so after all these years.

"Nothing much," Victor answered taciturnly, after which, he took a sip from his cherry slushy. Sylvia held her pineapple Italian ice in one hand; the other held Victor's arm as they strolled down the boardwalk connected to the beach.

Victor donned his leather black formal wear; Sylvia was dressed the same, wearing black slacks, a navy blue low-V-neck blouse, and her laced ebony boots, and wearing fingerless fishnet gloves that cut off at her elbows. Her hair was pulled up into a ponytail, the lock of midnight blue framing her face.

"I hope he still pays you well?"

"Liv, he doesn't have to pay me at all. I do the contracts for little to nothing."

"What contracts could you possibly be getting from someone who's no longer in the game anymore?"

"Doesn't really concern you."

Sylvia said pointedly, "So you respect him that much to do what he likes—whatever that is—for free?"

"Not 'free'," Victor chuckled. With a quirk of a hairless eyebrow, he added, "I said 'little to nothing'. I respect him. That's all."

"Respect doesn't pay the rent."

"Oh-ho!"

Sylvia looked at him: "What?"

"Don't 'what' me. You _know_ what."

"I don't know 'what'. What the hell is 'oh-ho' about?"

Victor stopped walking so Sylvia matched him, turning around to see that smug expression on his usual expressionless face.

"You sound jealous." Victor said, smirking at her.

"Of _Falcone_? Please."

"I'm no longer at your beck and call, kiddo. I have other contracts, you know."

"I never asked you to be at my beck and call. You _chose_ to be." Sylvia remarked smartly. She poked him hard in the chest, adding, "If you wanted to be entertained, Victor, you could have come to me. I have plenty other contracts you can complete without having to visit Falcone, you know. _And_ you can still be gainfully employed."

He grabbed her hand that was poking him in the chest.

"All kidding aside, you've missed me, haven't you?"

"What of you is there to miss?" She questioned, pulling her hand out of his grasp. "You're a hitman. Nothing more."

"Oh, that hurts" He returned sarcastically. "I thought we had more than that. What about our work-wedding vows?"

"For richer or poorer…For mass slaughter or picking off people one by one…"

"All of that. Whichever makes this whole thing between you and me dirtier."

"Ha-ha." Sylvia smirked at him. "When you were still working for Penguin—"

"What do you mean 'were'? I still am."

"Well, it's just that I don't see you around nearly as much."

"Because I'm _working_ ," He reminded, gesturing to the boardwalk. "It takes a lot of time out of my schedule, Liv."

"Yeah, walking the beach. How _stressful_. How _time consuming_. Give me a break."

Sylvia continued walking; he followed her, like a shark slowly swaying behind an angelfish.

"While you spend your time here, Gotham is riddled with monsters." She said with a grudgeful tone as she peered out at the ocean.

"Gotham has always been 'riddled' with monsters. It's _Gotham_."

"They're Strange's monsters."

With an air of aloof, Victor said, "How dangerous can they be."

"Two of them nearly killed my brother."

"He's still alive, isn't he?"

"From what I can tell."

Victor sensed the off-putting sound of her tone, and he took her arm, catching up to her. He drank the last of his slushy, threw it in the garbage tin beside them, and said with a slight tone of concern, "What do you mean by that?"

Sylvia's lips curled into a smile.

"Do you really care?"

"I care enough to ask," Victor said with a half-shrug.

"Jim is fine."

"Mm-hmm. 'From what you can tell'."

"I've not seen him in a few weeks."

"Why is that?"

Sylvia sighed, "Jim and I agreed that he shouldn't hang around me until the monsters are caught."

"Why is _that_?"

"The monsters are dangerous. Jim's a bounty hunter these days, you know. He doesn't want me to get hurt; Oswald doesn't want me hanging around Jim, since he attracts trouble."

Victor said mischievously, "And how has that been treating him?"

"As well as being a cop did."

"So little to no damage, huh?"

"Very little."

"It'll be good for him. He's a pretty good cop when he wants to be. People get burned out; maybe this will be like a vacation."

"You're underestimating how dangerous these monsters are."

"Yes. _So_ dangerous that they seem to be keeping _you_ at bay."

Sylvia frowned. But Victor appeared impish; he knew what that kind of challenge would do to her, but she didn't take his bait, although it appeared as though she was more than willing to do it.

"You know how much I want to go after them."

Victor leaned against the railing of the boardwalk. One boot on the bottom rail, while his arms were crossed. The weapons holstered in his vest seemed to gleam in the sunshine, along with his bald head.

He asked, "Why don't you?"

"Why don't I _what_?"

"Go after the monsters."

"I promised Oswald that I would back off."

"That's one hell of a promise. Coming from you. I guess if I wanted to get a few bucks from the GCPD, I could roll over a few monsters myself."

"Now you're just rubbing it in," Sylvia muttered, rolling her eyes dramatically to the sky.

She continued to walk while Victor strolled right behind her. She took a drink from her Italian ice.

"Neither bullets nor fire will keep you from war, but a promise will." Victor chuckled from behind. "That's something I didn't know about you."

"There's plenty more, I assure you."

"If you weren't married, I'd say that was innuendo."

Sylvia peered over her shoulder, saying slyly, "Are you making a pass at me?"

Victor shrugged carelessly and walked right by her. She kept up with him in stride. He hopped down the ten steps with a pep and then turned, holding out his hand. Humbly, she took it and he 'helped' her down the stairs. Now their feet stood on sand.

"Let's say I chose to be solely employed by you and Penguin. What kind of contracts are we talking about?" Victor asked, wrapping an arm around Sylvia's shoulders as she threw her slushy into the nearest garbage can.

"Simple ones."

"Good ones?"

"As good as you can get."

"I'd want first dibs."

"That's what Falcone did for you," Sylvia recalled. "You're asking for the same respect?"

"If they're good contracts."

"A contract is a contract."

"I want good ones."

"They _will_ be good ones."

"Such as?"

"I can't think of any right now." She admitted. "People have been too scared to rebel."

"The monsters, huh?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Once Jimbo catches all of those monsters, I wonder what else you'll use to keep your people idle." Victor mused aloud, smirking at her when Sylvia flashed him a look that read 'don't challenge me'. "I'm kidding."

A few children played in the water; many adults lounged on the beach, sun tanning, making castles. Victor and Sylvia acknowledged their presence while the other adults watched them with uneasy glances. After all, she and Victor had reputations known even on the outside of Gotham.

"How's your manservant?"

"Mr. Bell, you mean?" Sylvia asked.

"Whatever."

"He's doing better."

"Last I heard, he had the flu."

"I'm pretty sure it would have been pneumonia if he'd not gone to the doctor earlier." Sylvia commented. "He's better now…"

"But?"

Sylvia said quietly, "He was rekindling the fire and when he stood, he looked like he was in pain."

"Well, the guy's, what, sixty years old? Probably Don Falcone's age."

"He's fifty."

Victor acknowledged this with a nod.

"So you think there's more to the butler than what he's telling you?" He suspected.

"I think so. I think there's something wrong with his back."

"Just his back?"

"I don't know. We were brawling—you know, training—and he tried to grapple me from behind. I flipped him over my head and he broke the coffee table." Sylvia said, wincing at the memory. "I couldn't tell if the noise came from his back or the _table_. Scared me a little, to be honest."

"Is he in the hospital?"

"No. He said he didn't need to go."

"Stubborn fool."

"No stubborn than a mule."

"Less stubborn than _you_."

"I think there's more people more stubborn than me."

"Liv, there is no one more stubborn than you."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Victor." Sylvia reprimanded, smiling though.

A woman passed them. Long, brunette hair, full lips, dark amber brown eyes. She smiled dutifully at Victor and he made a slight bow to her. Sylvia didn't give any indication that she'd seen her. After the woman had gone, She sent him a cool glance.

"What?" He said defensively.

"Who was she?"

"No one you need to know," Victor returned protectively.

Sylvia's eyebrows quirked upward. She took Victor's arm and put it next to his own body, away from her own shoulders.

"Who _was_ she, Victor?"

Seeing that she wasn't going to let it go, he answered coolly: "Sofia Falcone."

"I didn't know Falcone had a daughter."

"He has a son too."

"Are you protective of him as well?"

"Between you and me, I can't the son-of-a-bitch." Victor admitted callously.

"So much animosity towards the son of a man you admire so much."

"Don Falcone is a man I respect. Mario Falcone is a putz. I never liked him."

"Glad to hear it."

She and Victor continued to walk down the beach.

"How's Delilah?" Victor asked, side-glancing her. "I hear she's been taking control of your club."

"She's becoming something of a protege."

"Does she dance too?"

"Not so well. She has two left feet."

"I guess your dance numbers will happen less and less these days."

"Half my dance team were slaughtered by the GCPD when Oswald and company went after Galavan," Sylvia reminded unhappily. "I've not had the heart to put the team back together after that."

"That's a shame." Victor lamented sincerely. "I enjoyed watching your practice rehearsals."

"I'm so sure you did." Sylvia responded, smirking at him. Seriously, she added, "I have to find more people if I want to start my choreography again. I've thought about extending my services elsewhere."

Victor looked at her inquisitively.

"Schools." Sylvia answered his silent question.

"Children?"

"You sound so surprised."

"You want to teach children how to dance?"

"Why not?" She questioned defensively. "The amount of energy these children have and they have nowhere to put it. I could guarantee that if my father let me dance in school, I wouldn't have had nearly many detention hours."

"I thought you _were_ on the dance team."

"I _wanted_ to be. I even tried out behind his back."

"I'm guessing you didn't qualify?"

"I more than qualified, _believe me_ ," Sylvia responded coldly. "It was the dance teacher...Mrs. Bunapart. I was a juvenile delinquent. When my brother and me were younger, Jimmy pushed Barney Truffles off a slide, and I took the blame. I spent detention after school every day of that week. And Jim and I skipped math class in the sixth grade, and guess who found us ditching?"

"Mrs. Bunapart."

"Yep. I was grounded for two weeks after that." She said resentfully. "So, naturally, when I tried out for the dance team, I blew my tryouts out of the water. Kids were cheering…but because Mrs. Bunapart knew I was a trouble maker, she wouldn't allow me to join the team. She said it would 'ruin the morale' or whatever. Fucking cunt."

"So, it sounds like you're still angry about that?"

"It's a fact, yes. I'm thirty-two years old, and I'm _still_ pissed off about what happened in high school. Who _isn't_? Who knows how many kids who were in my position were unable to do anything because of people like her."

"I'm sure that's changed."

"You bet? She's _still there_."

Victor's eyebrows went all the way up: "Are you kidding me?"

"No. That old bag is still there." She said calmly, "I'd like to help the kids out...those other juvenile delinquents. Honestly, I'd say I turned a pretty penny when I turned to a life of crime, but not everyone gets that lucky."

"I'd say it's because you're smart."

"I could take credit, but honestly, I give most of it to Oswald. He knew what he was doing at least. I didn't know _what_ the fuck **I** was doing. Riding the rails, I guess. Who knows, you know. I was just trying to come up with a plan."

"A dance team…I don't think kids share your passion, Liv."

"You'd be surprised." Sylvia simpered. "People don't give kids nearly enough credit. Look at what Selina Kyle can do, for instance."

"Who?"

"'Cat'."

"Oh."

"Not to mention Ivy Pepper."

"Mario Pepper's kid?"

"Yeah. She's on the streets now."

"You know, I'll give you this much credit." Victor sighed. "You may be Fish Mooney's counterpart, but there's something you have that she never did."

"What exactly is that?"

"A soft spot for children. Fish framed Pepper, and she never considered the consequences of her actions where the kid was concerned."

"Oh my goodness, Victor. I never knew you had such sentimentality." Sylvia teased, smirking at him.

"Fuck off, Liv."

"Fuck yourself, baby."

"Even if you somehow got through the school—"

"What do you mean 'somehow'?"

"You can strong-hand your way into a school all you like, but you're not going to become part of the staff." Victor explained amusedly. "People know you; teachers know who you are. I doubt any self-respecting principal would allow someone like you to walk right in and apply for a staff position."

"I'll be assembling a dance team for kids." She said stubbornly. "The principal, and cunts like Mrs. Bunapart be damned."

"I have no doubt you'll succeed."

Sylvia and Victor continued on their walk.

"I hear Fish is still on the loose," He said conversationally.

"You heard right."

"Any sightings?"

"None what so ever."

"Doesn't that irk you?"

"It's bothersome, but it doesn't keep me up at night."

"What about Penguin?"

"Now _he's_ bothered by it." Sylvia agreed. "After all, he's the one that killed her the first time. Who knows what she's planning now?"

"I'm surprised Jim hasn't found her."

"Jim works for money. Once there's a price on her head, he'll be more inclined to help."

"He doesn't think Fish might go after _you_?"

"Why would she go after me?"

"Why _wouldn't_ she?"

Sylvia looked at him pointedly: "Oswald killed her. Not me. The worst I've done to her is bite her leg."

"You killed her mother."

" _Did I_?" She said incredulously. "When did I do **that**?"

"You shot an old woman on a stage."

" _That_ was her mother?"

"Yes!"

"I didn't know that!"

"How could you not know! Isn't that why you shot her?"

"I honestly didn't know that old woman was Fish's mother! And no! I didn't shoot her for that reason, obviously."

"Then why did you shoot her?"

"Fish stabbed my husband in the hand with a fucking broach pen," Sylvia responded defensively. "If she hadn't hurt Oswald, I wouldn't have done anything. I would have hurt _Fish_ but I promised Oswald I wouldn't hurt her. And I couldn't let it go, now, could I?"

"Fish Mooney's mother was on that stage." Victor stated, glancing at her, since he was perplexed and amused that Sylvia hadn't any idea. "You shot her in the leg; the woman bled out before the cops or medics could get there in time."

"Well, this certainly has given me more perspective." She mumbled remorsefully.

"You never fail to amuse me, Liv."

"Well, I'm glad you find this funny!"

"It's not funny but in some ways, it is."

"I can tell—you're still laughing! Why are you laughing!"

"Because it's funny!"

"I really had _no idea_ that she was Fish's mother."

"Would that have changed the outcome?"

"Probably!" Sylvia responded strongly. "Oh my god, I can't even _believe—_ god, no wonder why she reacted the way she did! Fuck!"

"So, now you think she's after you."

"Well, _yes_ , **now** I do! What the hell—I thought I was just shooting an innocent bystander. I didn't think I was shooting Fish's _mother_! Oh my god!"

"I didn't think you'd have this big of a reaction, to be honest."

"Of course, I'm reacting! Do you have any idea how bad I feel?" She retorted, pushing him. "That poor woman! Fuck, had I known…I'm the worst person in the world! Fish is going to come after _me_ , oh my god, what the hell have I done! This is terrible, Victor! This is fucking horrible! I have to know what she's thinking—what she's planning, she's going to come after me in the middle of the fucking night, and I won't see her coming! No, I won't!"

Victor sensed that she was freaking out. It wasn't hard to see. He took three strides to the nearest water fountain, cupped his hand under the faucet and then strode two paces back, splashing her in the face.

Sylvia glared at him: "What the _hell_ was that for!"

"You needed to calm down."

"So, you splash me with water?"

"Well, you wouldn't have responded to me if I said 'Liv, you need to calm down'. Right?"

Sylvia sighed, and muttered, "I guess you're right."

Victor took her shoulders; she looked at him carefully.

"It doesn't matter what she's planning," He said reassuringly, his eyes boring into hers, making certain that she wasn't about to freak out again. "You have Gotham by the reigns, and every hoodlum, thug, and hitman at your disposal, including me. Even if you didn't have any of that, you're still the Lark, so—"

"What the fuck, Victor. I'm not a fucking lark."

"Well, that's what people have been calling you."

"Why?" She snapped, pushing him away from her. "I never inspired that nickname—never said it once! Who came up with that name, huh? _Who_!"

"So, you don't like the name?"

"It's not that I don't like the name. I just want to know where it came from and why!"

"It's a _good_ name."

"It's arbitrary. That's like if someone started calling you 'Polar Bear' or a 'Raccoon'. Is it insulting? Not necessarily, but at the same time, wouldn't you be wondering 'why'?"

"I wouldn't mind being called a raccoon, to be honest." Victor admitted jokingly. "They're pretty tidy."

"Fuck you, Victor. I'm trying to have a decent conversation—"

"That's a lot better than you freaking out about how Fish might kill you in your sleep."

"Fuck you! I don't fucking need this right now. I'm _leaving_." Sylvia said strongly, and she started on her heel to put some distance between them.

He held out an arm in front of her and somehow this became a barrier. It stopped her from taking any more steps, and she gave him a look. Victor smiled knowingly.

"You know better than to leave angry."

"I'll leave how I wanna leave."

"Has that ever worked before?"

Sylvia rolled her eyes and she reluctantly returned to him. He grinned from ear-to-ear when she hugged him. He hugged her back.

"How much longer are you going to be here?" Sylvia asked unhappily as she cast a judgmental look on all of the people who were currently sprawled out on the beach, tanning, worry-free.

"A few more days. Then I'll be back in the city."

"Don't take too long."

"See, I knew you missed me."

"Fuck you."

"You first." Victor said, winking at her.

Sylvia rolled her eyes and she walked back to her car.


	8. Little Lark

Chapter Eight: Little Lark

* * *

Oswald sat at the head of the table. The other Heads of the Five Families sat across from him.

Butch stood behind him, along with Gabe.

Mr. Bell stood at the door with his hands clasped together in front of him.

Sylvia sat on Oswald's left side. One of her hands rested on the table innocuously; the other occupied space on Oswald's thigh, closest to his knee, her thumb rubbing circles over his pant leg.

There were topics to discuss, including increasing protection taxes. Strange's monsters had scared half of Gotham's population; the other half were furious that these monsters had taken over the functionality of their homely lives. All five Dons of the Families had grown increasingly restless, and all had questioned their own protection status amongst the rabble. Things as silly as dock taxes, fees for transporting drugs, importing illegal products, and exporting fake things for quick turn of profit were at the bottom of the list.

While one topic was disputed, rejected, accepted, debated and then crossed off the list—Oswald being the judge of what would or wouldn't be acceptable from here on out—Sylvia was never more disinterested in the conversation. No one aside from Oswald would be able to tell; her slighted smile appeared as though she was agreeing with whatever her husband declared, but really, it was because her hand was slowly making its way between his legs.

What made the crooked smile widen was when Oswald slightly re-positioned in his seat so his thighs parted just enough to invite her in. He didn't so much as look at her or even give the notion that anything was happening beneath the table.

In the meantime, the Heads were unhappy.

This included Don Anderson, head of the Anderson Family and father to the late Drake Anderson.

Ronald Maroni represented the Maroni Family. He was actually second-in-line to take the place but his niece, Maria, had declined, not wanting to be a part of the Family's infernal mob line. Ron Maroni was just as portly as his brother, Salvatore, but less hotheaded.

The third was the Dray Family. The Head was Maximillian, who preferred to be called 'Max'. He was gray-haired, and had an elastic face, and was commonly mistaken for a Halloween decoration. But to his credit, he and the rest of his party were always the most sensible and the least unnerved.

Then there were the Belichs of Russian and French descent. The Head of the Family was a Frenchman by the name of Jock. He was in his late twenties, and always wore a symbolic leather brown jacket, and a five o'clock shadow. He could speak both French and English, and regularly had to translate anything that was discussed back to his people.

The last of the Heads was Isaac Paddock, who served in the United States Air Force for nearly 30 years, and after he was denied VA benefits, he turned to a life of crime. As a pilot in the USAF, most of his hearing had gone and he was declared legally deaf by his doctors. He couldn't hear anything, let alone someone talk.

"How great is the protection fee?" asked Don Anderson sarcastically. "People are scurrying to their homes, afraid to walk at night. And how protected are _we_ from these monsters? I saw one rip the roof of a car right off like it was a plastic top for a butter bowl!"

Isaac Paddock, head of the Paddock Family, nodded in agreement, able to read lips and primarily had read Don Anderson's. Being that he was Deaf, Isaac Paddock signed his response.

Oswald glanced at Sylvia for translation.

Sylvia removed her hand from his lap, signing exactly what she was saying so all parties could understand what words were being exchanged, including Oswald.

"Don Anderson," Sylvia translated, "is worried that he, along with the other Heads of the Families, will not be able to protect themselves, owing to the monsters being able to unroof cars. That Gotham's people are scared to walk around the city at night. Mr. Paddock says that Gotham's people have never been able to walk around the city at night, because of people like 'us'."

Paddock smiled, reaffirming what she had said with a sign of his own. A few minutes passed during which Paddock and Sylvia conversed. Whatever was discussed, Paddock appeared not only humored but placated, after which he placed his fingers near his mouth, moved it forward while he smiled sincerely.

"You're welcome." Sylvia returned gracefully.

"Well, _this_ is a jovial discussion." Mr. Dray uttered hoarsely.

Ron Maroni chuckled, "I get it. The joke. Because we don't know what they're saying."

"This is ridiculous," Anderson muttered. He leaned forward and said loudly to Paddock, " _Learn to hear_."

"Mr. Anderson!" Sylvia snapped. " _That_ was rude!"

"Wanna know 'rude'?" He questioned, slowly getting to his feet. "It's when someone like you comes into _my_ home, and slaughters my son right in front of me."

Sylvia frowned and stood as well.

"Your son had not only once but _twice_ tried to undermine me. You're lucky I spared him the first time; otherwise, he'd been dead _long_ ago!"

"What gives you the right! He was stubborn, of _course_ he was, but never did that warrant a death sentence!"

Sylvia leaned over the table to match his aggressive stance: "Mr. Anderson, your son was not only stubborn but he was an idiotic _jackass._ "

" _Enough_!"

Sylvia and Anderson glanced at Oswald who looked irately at them. Wordlessly, the both of them sat down although they leered at one another across the table. Oswald sent Sylvia a warning glance and she shrugged carelessly; her smart remark quelled, at least.

Gabe and Butch, both of whom stood behind Oswald exchanged glances while Mr. Bell, who stood at the door, looked like he'd made up his mind as to whose side he was on.

"There is enough anarchy taking place outside," Oswald said diplomatically. "We do not need a war amongst ourselves. While there was an unnecessary spillage of blood in the past—"

"—Yes, _quite_ unnecessary—" Anderson emphasized, glaring at Sylvia.

"That being _said_ ," Oswald continued loudly to thwart another interruption, "I propose that from here on out, all future assassinations will be discussed with me _prior_ to its due merit."

"The assassination of Drake Anderson _was_ discussed, Oswald." Sylvia declared coldly. (He looked at her calmly.) "I spoke to his father _the day before_." She looked past him to Anderson, adding emphatically, "He never told me _not_ to do it. He even agreed with me that Drake's vile attempt to persuade the other Families to contest me warranted a death sentence!"

She stood and glared at the Head of the Family: "Those were your _exact_ words!"

"I said it _could_ warrant a death sentence, not that it _did_."

"Are you really going to twist your own fucking words?"

"How dare you—"

"You were put in the middle of a dilemma where you chose the business over your own family, and suddenly you want to be the victim. _After_ the fact. Are you fucking kidding me?"

"I said _I_ would punish him! I said _I_ would do it! There was no discussion of a strumpet—"

"—Who the **fuck** are you calling 'strumpet'—"

"—If you behaved like this in the past, the other Families would have—"

"You're not the only one who has been in this business long enough to know what they would have done. _They_ wouldn't have done anything, because they fucking know better!"

"Then I would have—"

"—Would have **what!"** Sylvia challenged.

Anderson had scooted out of his chair and bared over the table to argue with her.

They'd been arguing over the surface, pointing, glaring, spitting curses at one another. While the disarray occurred before their eyes, it prompted the other Families to question their own safety and leadership, throwing them into a panicking shouting session as well. Meanwhile, Gabe and Butch exchanged incredulous glances while Mr. Bell, who was curiously still, stood at the doorway.

Oswald sighed sharply. He took the gun from beneath the table, stood, pointed the gun at the ceiling and pulled the trigger. The gunshot silenced everyone, including Anderson and Sylvia who looked as though they'd claw each other's throats out unless someone stopped them.

"That's enough!" Oswald ordered. "We'll circle back to this conversation once the other topics have been discussed."

He politely asked for Anderson to retreat back to his seat, which he did. Oswald sent Sylvia a warning glance but it was hard not to lose his temper with her but could he really blame her for that passionate outburst?

Being made the villain of the piece when she'd done her due diligence…Oswald could empathize with her situation to the fullest degree.

Sylvia sat back down, crossing her legs at the ankle. Oswald watched her until she seemed to (at least physically) calm down. What she was thinking, he didn't want to know.

Paddock looked at all of them. He needn't any translation as to what had been discussed. He was more than perceptive.

"I've not seen Fish anywhere," Ron Maroni mentioned loosely. He said carelessly, "I guess she's down for the count, huh?"

"I still can't even believe she's alive." Mr. Dray said as he rubbed a hand through his grayness of hair.

"Guess she'll be leading the monsters," Maroni said with a dark chuckle. "That sounds like something she'd do."

Sylvia ignored the conversation. She wasn't interested in talking about Fish. In fact, she really didn't feel like being a part of this discussion at all. What she wanted was to smack Anderson over the head with the marble ash tray that currently sat in front of Maroni, who was juicing the hell out of a pipe for the moment.

But since this wouldn't be allowed, Sylvia sought other ways to quell her anger.

She placed her hand on Oswald's thigh, hoping that it would dissipate into something more productive. He watched her carefully before he decided to the move the topic from Fish Mooney to something more profitable: importation and exportation.

With her one hand, she slowly undid the top two buttons of his trousers. Her left hand remained on the table, her thumb fiddling with her wedding ring. From above the surface, not a soul could tell that she was up to no good. Her eyes remained on any one of the Families; normally, it was whomever was speaking at the moment.

Paddock signed a question. Sylvia translated for Oswald: "He wants to know what you plan on doing with the captain at the docks; apparently, he wants to decrease fishing taxes. His workers have been unionizing for better working conditions."

Sylvia leaned into him and whispered, "Evidently, not everyone is so eager to obey you…" She licked his ear. "Not like _me_ , baby."

Oswald took in a sharp breath before he relayed an answer to the men. Her double entendres were seductive, to say the least.

Her hand stroked over his lap and she found a hardened extension of him. Gently, her palm massaged his hard-on so it allowed him to speak without stammering over his words.

"It's easier said than done." Ron Maroni explained, exhaling a large cloud of smoke from his pipe. "Those captains either want decreased taxes or more money. We can pull them to our side if we do both."

"Well, it can come out of _your_ check then," said Belich. "I'm not a….a uh...Quel est le mot que je cherche." He looked Oswald and Sylvia, saying, "uh...'rapiat'?

"Cheapskate," Sylvia and Oswald answered simultaneously.

"Exactly!" Belich said, gesturing emphatically as he turned to Maroni. "I'm not a 'cheapskate'. But how many captains do we have at the ports, hmm? How many do we bank roll a _week_? That's a lot of _money."_

"Well, we decrease their taxes and give them more money. We get more captains, and _we_ get more money."

"That doesn't make any sense," Dray stated. "If you're decreasing your taxes and giving them more money, you're losing all profits!"

"No, but we're getting more men who will get us more money!" Maroni explained passionately. "That's the beauty of it!"

"But you've got to get the men first!" Anderson snapped.

"We have the men!" Maroni explained. "It's so, _so_ simple."

"It's idiotic, that's what it is." Belich said, shaking his head. "What if you lose captains at the docks? Then you're losing money, giving more money to what's left—at the bottom of it, you've cut your profits in half."

"In half?" Maroni responded, surprised. "What's this 'in half' business? I was thinking 'one percent'….this _in half_ business? Where did that even come up?"

" _You_ said it!" Anderson said, gesturing to him.

"I said we'd cut taxes—but not in half! Maybe you should take a day off, man. You're still grieving if you think I'm gonna cut anything in half, never the less the tax!"

While the Dons argued, Sylvia continued her mischievous play. Normally, Oswald wouldn't allow any of this conversation to go out of hand, but he wasn't paying attention to any of it. Instead, he was more concerned with Sylvia's hand slipping inside the waistband of his trousers, her fingers coiling around his stiff cock, teasing him.

She kissed his jawline and he heard her sultry purr: "I want you to bend me over this table and _fuck_ me."

Her dirty whispers were getting to him; she could tell. His cock twitched happily when she spoke to him in her low, soft timbre.

She kissed his neck and blew so softly that her warm kiss became a source of chill. Oswald shuddered when she purposely moaned into his ear, only loud enough where he could hear.

"You don't understand," laughed Maroni. "The tax ain't getting cut in half—"

"Yeah, it's not the tax—it's our profits," Belich reminded unhappily. "That's what you are proposing."

Sylvia rubbed his cock, feeling the muscle of him harden. Her thumb rolled over the tip. With her free hand, she ran her fingers up his chest, over his vest and tie, and then cradled his throat in her palm—their audience, forgotten. As though he was operating purely by instinct, his head craned back; her voice whispered again in his ear: "I want you to fuck me, Oz. Fuck me. _Own_ me."

Oswald took her hand from him—both of them—looking at her as though she'd put him under a spell. Then again, was it far from the truth? Sylvia smirked at him and he looked at the other men in the room who were arguing amongst themselves. Preferring not to stand and reveal to the others what Sylvia had been doing to him under the table, Oswald insisted that they all take a break and come back to the meeting with clearer heads.

Disgruntled, they all left. Meanwhile, Sylvia looked innocently on.

"Boss?" Butch voiced, glancing at Oswald curiously. "Something wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong." He responded almost immediately. "If you would, actually, please escort the others out and make sure they stay in the area. I'll have a talk with them the moment I'm finished."

"Finished?" Gabe repeated uncertainly.

"I'm going to speak to Sylvia privately, Gabe."

"Oh." He muttered. He and Butch left with Mr. Bell, along with the others, closing the door on their way out.

Sylvia smirked as Oswald stood, watching her dangerously.

"Why do you look so angry?" She asked, still unable to hide her devious grin. "You look like you were enjoying it."

"Did you mean any of that? What you were whispering to me."

Sylvia said sweetly, "Of course, I meant it. There's nothing hotter to me than watching you work, Oz. You should know what that does to me by now. All this talk of politics and diplomacy….it really gets me worked up."

To prove her point, she scooted out of her chair and walked over to him. Calmly as ever, Sylvia took his hand in hers; she coaxed him to her as she sat on the table, separating her legs and placing his hand under her dress and between them so he could feel how hot and wet she was.

Oswald licked his lips when his fingers ghosted over the pooling wetness in the front of her panties. Yes, he felt it. Her heat.

"I doubt it was the discussion of the people paying a protection tax." He said sheepishly.

"You're right. I could care less about tax. But I _do_ like listening to you talk. There's a reason why I like attending these meetings. And look…See what you do to me without ever even trying?"

Oswald allowed a smug smile to reach his lips. He couldn't help it. He was still amazed by how attracted Sylvia was to him. It was just about as much as he was attracted to her.

He pulled her into a kiss, one that was tender and soft; when his fingers dipped inside her panties and felt the full effect that he had on her, Oswald prodded his tongue between her lips, happily gaining entry with little effort. Sylvia wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

"Fuck me, Oz." She insisted in between kisses. "Fuck me."

"It's getting harder to deny you anything, Pet."

"That's not the only thing getting harder in this room."

Oswald groaned when she palmed him through his pants.

"They'll be returning in ten minutes."

"Then you best get a move on."

Just hearing her—Oswald threw logic and condition out the door. He proceeded to unbutton his trousers the rest of the way half-haphazardly, and tore Sylvia's panties right off her body. Sylvia wasn't protesting; in fact, the dilation of her pupils grew bigger.

"Own me, baby." She panted.

" _Shut up_."

He pulled her off the table, bent her over it and Sylvia let out a dark chuckle when her dress was lifted above her lower back. Oswald fingered her pussy from behind until her excitement dripped down her thigh.

Her cries were needy and hungry: "Yes, yes…oh my god, _fuck!_ "

The sound of his belt loosening, and his pants dropping made her spine tingle.

He leaned forward, not just to thrust his cock inside her wet pussy but to wrap his hand around her jaw, muffling her moans as he moved in and out of her.

Sylvia was enthusiastic; he didn't have to know what she was saying to understand her emphatic response, but he sensed that she was trying to legitimately tell him something. He hoped she wasn't trying to tell him 'stop'; he doubted he'd be able to contain himself if she did. Oswald lowered his hand from her mouth. Craning her neck to look at him, she spoke.

"Don't be gentle. Fuck me like I'm your whore."

His hand moved to her neck, fingers wrapping around her throat; her head craning back. He moved her closer. Sylvia looked up at him, her eyes wide but filled with lust; her back against his chest, her palm and fingers spread over the table top.

The edge of the table dug into her thighs as Oswald kept her pinned against it. She let out a little, desirable laugh when his grip tightened around her neck.

"You're such a mouthy little brat today, aren't you," He chastised, sliding his cock in and out of her, pumping so fast that the table, holding a great deal of Sylvia's weight, was creaking.

Sylvia responded to him, the creases of her eyes meeting a mischievous smile.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" Oswald questioned, reaching down with his free hand to rub her clit. "Knowing there are people outside who can hear you, knowing at any moment they can just walk in—" (Sylvia nodded helplessly) "and see you…."

Sylvia grunted when he pushed her forward on the table completely, his hand leaving her mouth so he could keep her steady; his fingers spread, his palm between her shoulder blades.

"Stay fucking still." Oswald ordered.

Sylvia nodded quickly.

He was breathless, panting even. But his cock moved without a trace of exhaustion slowly inside her pussy, hitting that perfect G-spot, before pulling out completely just to ram itself right back in.

"Hold the table."

Sylvia reached out to the sides and held the edges of the table.

He kissed the nape of her neck so gently, so tenderly. Then he whispered in her ear: "Don't make a sound. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Sir," She answered obediently.

"Good girl."

He pulled back.

Oswald then stood in her vision, putting himself back in order before going to the door. He spoke with a gentleman outside—whether that was Gabe, Butch, Mr. Bell, another house servant, or a Don, Sylvia didn't know. She wanted to hear what he was telling them, but…there was a call for subservience. And she wouldn't disobey.

Sylvia watched as Oswald closed the door once more. He came strolling back, and while she wanted to greet him openly, she waited instead.

"You didn't move." Oswald noted aloud.

"Not a centimeter."

She didn't even turn her head as she acknowledged him.

"Mouthy, but obedient." He praised.

He ran his hands down the bareness of her back, the taut straps of her gown along her shoulders, pulling them down her arms and when he asked her to lift her hands off the table so the straps fell forward and away once she did as he instructed. His touch was simple, soft as he ran his fingers down her body once he stood behind her; simple, feather-light touches, but they were like electric, numbing tingles, which dove straight inside her core.

She turned her head slightly, watching him stand behind her. While he touched every part of her that was revealed to him with one hand, Oswald was stroking himself through his pants with the other. Now, _that_ was a tasty sight.

"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" He breathed from behind her.

"I have an _idea_." She responded honestly. "What do you plan on doing about it?"

Oswald grabbed her ass with both of his hands, then pulled her gown above her lower back to admire it in its glory. Hearing her remark brought about another jolt of excitement and untethered arousal. He jostled with his trousers, pulling his cock out again and didn't waste any time as he thrusted it deep inside her. She let out a wanton keen.

It didn't take long. Between her lusty moans, her wet, hot walls sheathing and contracting around him, he was certain he wouldn't last much longer. When he saw her nails raking the table, her thighs quaking, Oswald anticipated her orgasm; when she came, she came hard…and he pounded through her climax, listening to her moan and writhe as he did.

"That's it, my little Lark." Oswald moaned. "Sing for me."

Sylvia's moans became louder. He pulled out, turned her around, and lifted her onto the table. The top of her gown fell down the rest of the way, puddling around her waist; Sylvia wrapped her legs around his waist, her hands grabbing at any part of him to make him move closer to her. Her hips desperately lifted to meet his quick pace. He buried his hand between them, rubbing her clit hard until she came again.

And he couldn't hold himself back any longer.

Sylvia moaned, a soft whimper leaving her lips as she felt his cock bury deep inside of her, the feeling of him filling her up in more ways than one. Oswald panted, trying to catch his breath while Sylvia looked up at him.

"'Little Lark'?" She said quizzically, smirking up at him. "So, now _you're_ calling me that too?"

Oswald said reproachfully, "In my defense, it suits you."

Sylvia sat up.

"Fine. I'll be Lark to everyone else. That's fine. Just as long as I'm only _your_ Pigeon." She said, matter-of-fact.

"Always." Oswald promised, smiling happily at her.


	9. Barbara Wants A Club

Chapter Nine: Barbara Wants A Club

* * *

Six months had passed since Strange's monsters had been released. While Oswald was _more_ than happy to concentrate on that fact (as well as Fish Mooney having disappeared without so much as a blip on anyone's radar but his own), his current priority was planning the best day ever for him and Sylvia.

After all, it was their third-year anniversary.

And a simple fact remained: Oswald had known Sylvia for nearly five years. He loved her to death and beyond, and yet, planning something for her was always a _pain_ in the ass.

While working for Fish, he and Sylvia had met at 'Mooney's'. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

Oswald and Sylvia had worked together, each bringing something to the table that Fish liked or wanted. Whether that was Sylvia's cynicism and ability to keep Regulars coming either for the drink or her company, or Oswald's subservience—whatever it was that Fish wanted, they gave it to her in hopes that they could endear themselves to her.

It wasn't until after he and Sylvia were dating that Oswald discovered that Sylvia's main ambition to getting closer to Fish was so that she could get closer to _him_. While working for Fish, they had exchanged platitudes, subtle notions of interest and flirts—mostly on Sylvia's end. She had chased him until he finally said 'fuck it', downed a shot of Jim Beam, and then asked her on a date. Her response still made him laugh to this day when he thought about it: _Well, it's about fucking time,_ she had said.

They had been married for three years. Courting each other for five—the technicalities could really muddy things up, but with love, was there really such a thing as timelines or technicalities? Oswald couldn't believe so.

Still…

He'd gone this far without realizing one difficult matter: Sylvia was the hardest person for whom to plan a _perfect_ day. When it came down to it, all she ever wanted was to spend time with him. Money, gifts—she didn't care about any of it. That wasn't to say that she didn't appreciate anything he gave her from jewelry to buying her lavish dresses; she had many ways of showing it either with praise, hugs, or a gift of her own. However, she was so minimalistic that she was actually high maintenance; it was ironic!

Fish Mooney was out plotting whatever it is she was planning; Strange's monsters were stalking streets, victimizing Gotham's people; and yet, Oswald's predicament remained: What could he do for the love of his life when she really didn't require much of anything?

He'd sent Sylvia out to negotiate prices with the current GCPD Commissioner, talking down the latter's asking price of 10% of all the under-the-table cuts made with his dirtier officers. Oswald had told her that he wanted it at least the 5% range. He could have done this himself; however, it was a distraction. It was just a way to get her out of the mansion so he could talk more openly about what he wanted to do for her.

He held a conference.

Sitting around the table was Gabe, Butch, Delilah, Mr. Bell, Victor Zsasz, and Oswald. Aside from Jim Gordon, these were the people who had known Sylvia the longest. Had Fish Mooney been on his side, Oswald would have even invited her. That's how desperate he was to make sure their anniversary day would go without delay, without interruption, and more importantly, without any hitches.

However, after much deliberation, there wasn't much being accomplished. Exhausted by either the outlandish ideas being tossed around or no bearing to reality, Oswald kicked them out of the room; the only people left in the room were Mr. Bell, Butch, and Gabe; primarily, they were there to be given further orders, and Mr. Bell's placement kept him in the mansion at all times to serve either Sylvia or her husband.

Oswald rubbed his face with his hands, and, almost comically, laid his forehead on the wooden table as though he had exhausted any idea that had been brought to him.

It wasn't as though the crew hadn't come up with any good ideas.

Gabe's inexpensive idea of just staying home, ordering in, being typical homebodies had been the most profitable. It incorporated what Sylvia loved most: spending time with him. Still, Oswald knew that at any moment, someone (be it enemy, gang member, Family Member, or others) could demand to be let inside and the thugs would be intimidated. Especially if it was Jim Gordon who demanded rights to see his own sister. The perfect evening would be interrupted, and therefore, ruined.

So the homebody experience was out.

Mr. Bell offered to buy tickets for Sylvia and Oswald to go to an Opera. That would have been just fine for Oswald, but as superficial and sophisticated as Sylvia tried to make herself seem, he knew better. They shared common interests, but when it came down to it, Sylvia was a Gordon. That fancy life—seeing Operas, wearing fancy dresses and ball gowns—that wasn't his wife. She _did_ wear beautiful tresses and lovely ball gowns, but it was either for her club, his events, or basically to show off her toned legs in short skirts and high heels. When it came down to it: that sophistication just wasn't Sylvia.

So, that was a no-go.

Then there was Butch's idea. He'd met somewhere in the middle.

Going out to the movies. Not a fancy movie theater, just a common, upper middle-class viewing of a hot film. That was almost perfect, except people _knew_ who he was and they knew Sylvia. Going to the common ground where—let's be realistic—there were people who wanted them dead….? Not the safest route. While it was a good idea since Sylvia loved watching movies (especially the horror genre), he wouldn't be able to relax. The movie theater wasn't safe.

There were ways around the gaps of vulnerability, however. Sylvia was not just his wife, or his chauffeur (he could drive but he chose not to), but she was a body guard and an impressive body builder. They both kept a knife on them any time they went out—his knife was kept hidden in his cane; Sylvia kept a switchblade in her pocket and always had one strapped to her thigh (the latter was most common if she wore a dress.).

Despite the arguments Butch cleverly lied out in flattering fashion, the fact remained: Whatever their resources or physical attributes of arming themselves, they would still be left defenseless if the assassin popped up at the right time.

To further eradicate the need for paranoia, Butch offered to go, but Oswald declined. He was trying to find a moment with his wife _alone_. Having Butch there would ruin it.

Then there were suggestions made as to what he could buy as a gift.

Chocolates. Flowers. Jewelry.

Oswald only scoffed. Those were basic.

While he had been admitted to Arkham, Sylvia had kept the kingdom afloat all on her own. For someone who never wanted to manage anything as king-sized as Gotham's Underbelly, she had done it beautifully. And she had done it with a great deal of sacrifice on her part, and she'd only done it for him. He'd never been more in debt to her; and while Sylvia had more than once told him that he owed her nothing in return because she had kept the empire running out of love, there was still much appreciation to be shown on his part.

Something as basic as a box of chocolates, a bouquet of flowers, and a necklace would not be enough. At least, not in his eyes.

Mr. Bell let out a small groan.

Oswald glanced up to see that the manservant was standing a little off, as though he were trying to hide an ailment. He'd heard Sylvia talk about Mr. Bell's unfortunate drop on the coffee table, which had been taken to the carpenter's for repair; perhaps her misgivings about the servant's back injury were not just out of empathy.

"Mr. Bell."

"Yes, sir?" Mr. Bell said, quickly straightening—when he did, that painful grimace of which Oswald was all too aware, returned.

"Are you feeling all right?"

"A little achy," He responded honestly, shaking his head. "But nothing to be pressed about, I assure you, sir."

Oswald considered his words with a nod of his as he, too, straightened. He sat back in his seat, one hand on the table while the other rested on the head of his cane…. ah the cane…yet another gift that Sylvia had given him. It wasn't even for a special occasion—it had been just out of the blue!

Thoughtfully, he peered up at Butch, who readily smiled.

"How long do you think she'll be?" asked Butch, glancing out the door before looking at Oswald once more. "She's pretty good at bargaining—I don't think she'll be much longer with the Commissioner."

He answered unhappily, "You're right, of course. One of her most valuable assets is her ability to negotiate. She and the Commissioner have frequently debated in the past year. He knows how she works, by now."

Gabe muttered, "I figure after all this time, he'd just accept it and go."

"I know, right?" Butch chuckled. "He should know the drill by now; she's gonna eventually wear him down…might as well just go with it." He paused. "It's been, what, about twenty minutes, wouldn't you say?"

"What's your _point_ , Butch?" Oswald said irritably.

"If you were going to plan something in the next ten minutes, you better come up with something quick."

"This _isn't_ a surprise party."

Gabe asked, "When's your anniversary date?"

"Next week."

"And you're planning now?"

"Yes." Oswald answered. He leaned forward and said pointedly, "I don't care much for your _tone_."

Butch raised a hand and his metal one as though defending both himself and Gabe, and said calmly, "We're just saying, Boss. Some people wait until a day or two before they start to plan something. You're planning pretty early…you know…in comparison."

"I would have actually started months ago," Oswald admitted grumpily as he sat back once more. "If not for Fish, Strange, and everyone else…well, that doesn't matter now."

Butch stepped up and then sat in a chair closest to Oswald, who looked at him expectantly. Hearing another groan, Butch and Oswald turned their sights to Mr. Bell who, for the moment, was bent forward, his hands on his knees and that painful expression back on his face. This time, there was no attempt to hide it.

"Mr. Bell."

"Sir, I _assure_ you, I'm fine."

"Be that as it may," Oswald sighed, "I think you ought to make an appointment to see your doctor."

Mr. Bell lifted his gaze to him, pleading.

"If you don't do it for yourself, do it for Sylvia," He warned. "You know how she is."

Taking his suggestion under advisement, Mr. Bell bowed his head as though in defeat, and then with a noticeable slower gait, he walked out of the living room towards the nearest phone to place a call to his doctor. When the servant had left the room and was out of ear shot, Butch looked at Oswald inquisitively.

"Seems like he's starting to go down."

"Yes. I've noticed too."

"If something happens to him, I'm not gonna be the one to tell Liv." Butch said quickly, tapping the table top with his fleshy hand. "She gets so emotionally attached to her people…whenever I've had to tell her something about one of them, it feels like a death sentence."

"If he ends up having to go to the doctor, either he or I tell her."

"Right. You can soften the blow better than I can."

"At least we can agree on that."

There was a moment of silence before Butch spoke: "Are you _sure_ you want to pass on the movie idea? I could sit in the back row."

"In the back row? That'snot going to solve anything."

"I won't be in the way."

"No."

"I won't even talk. I'll even pay for the tickets."

" _No._ "

"You can think of me as a chaperone. When you two are together, you act like a couple of teenagers in love anyway."

"Get out."

"Okay, okay. I'm leaving." Butch said although he was chuckling as he let himself out of the living room.

* * *

After Sylvia had finished negotiating with the Commissioner, she went to a coffee shop. Not only was it because her sweet tooth egged her on for a vanilla latte, but because she had received one simple text. The sender: unknown. It only read: _We need to talk._ \- B.

Seeing as the coffee shop was small, remote, and not sanctioned in the seedier places of the city, she didn't plan on anything horrific happening. Sylvia ordered two coffees and sat at a booth furthest from any windows; it was in the corner, in a smoking section. A black, plastic ash tray was provided in the center of the table, along with condiments of regular sugar and sweet-n-low packets, salt and pepper shakers, creamers (French Vanilla, and original), and assorted brown and white napkins.

At the moment, she favored jeans, open-toed flats, and a black sweatshirt. Casual, but comfortable. Her visit to the Commissioner had been nearly the same.

After a time, the Commissioner had become easier to negotiate with. By all means, he was a lot more reasonable than Loeb.

It had been a fair discussion; the debate of prices had only lasted five minutes; the other twenty minutes was mainly talk about movies—she even recommended a few films which had been rated R for gore and language, two things that Sylvia absolutely loved.

She took her phone out from the back pocket of her jeans, and sent a text to Oswald.

 _Cut is 3%. Also, he says 'hi'._

A minute passed, probably during the time where Oswald would feel the received vibration of her message. Sylvia could practically see the look of satisfaction when he read her text. A small 'ting' sounded as she received his response.

 _I knew you could do it. Thank you. Where are you now?_

Sylvia chuckled. Always asking for her location.

 _Coffee shop. Do you want anything?_

His message almost came back immediately:

 _You know I don't drink coffee._

Sylvia's only response was a smiley-face.

 _:)_

The small cow bell hanging over the door frame of the front entrance rang.

Sylvia wasn't surprised when she looked up from her phone to see Barbara Kean walking in, wearing the most beautiful ocean-blue sequenced, silk blouse and knee-high short black skirt that money could buy. The woman's heels tapped the tile with a sharp 'click'.

If Sylvia had an alter ego, its name would be Barbara Kean.

The woman was dressed from head to toe in glamour, as she always had been in contrast to Sylvia's attire which were jeans and a T-shirt. Armed with a passion for all that was finery, Barbara had grown up with these sorts of mannerisms, which included a greeting of a Euro kiss.

Sylvia stood, appeased her with one of her own kiss-on-the-cheek greetings, then Barbara sat across from her in the booth. Wordlessly, Sylvia gently pushed the extra coffee cup in her direction, and Barbara smiled gratefully.

"Is it...?"

"Mm-hmm."

"You remember how I like my coffee," Barbara said appreciatively. She took a sip. "Extra sweet."

Sylvia leaned back in her seat, sitting crisscrossed with her feet on the cushion as Barbara took a few more sips, closing her eyes, savoring the flavor. Meanwhile, Sylvia eyed her carefully.

Back in the day when Barbara hadn't been insane, they had been good friends. Barbara had been dating her brother, and Sylvia had always made a point to bond with any of the girls Jim claimed to be his significant other...even if Jim didn't care to return the favor. For a long time, she and Barbara had lunches—she would go to Barbara's art museum, talk trash about the other art galleries, and even talk about Jim's snoring.

Seeing Barbara now, it felt like two lifetimes ago. And she expressed the same sentiment.

"It's been a long time since we did this, _huh_ , girlfriend," She said happily, winking at her.

"Yes, it has."

"You have a weird look on your face. What's wrong?"

"You really don't know?"

"How could I know? I'm not a mind reader."

"No. You're definitely not."

Barbara sighed, raising her eyebrows high while her gaze was fixated on her coffee. It was an expression of apathetic defeat, as though she knew Sylvia would see through her intentions immediately, although she had hoped to fool her a little while longer.

"Fine." Barbara said, frowning a little. "Why do you think I'm here?"

"You don't want to know what I think." Sylvia said, ghosting over her response. She glanced at the other space on the cushion beside Barbara, asking, "Where's your lesser half?"

"My lesser half?…O _h_ , you mean Tabitha."

"You are hardly ever one without the other these days. I thought she'd come here too."

"Did you?"

"Why do you think I only bought _you_ coffee."

"That's a little childish, don't you think?"

"Childish, but effective." Sylvia folded her hands on the table, her phone lying beside her on the cushion. "You had a purpose for coming here, didn't you?"

"Maybe I just wanted to see my favorite—"

"Cut the shit, Babs."

Barbara looked surprised, putting a hand over her chest: "Well, I can certainly see that you've not changed in the slightest, have you? You still have that mouth of yours."

"Your parents were rich assholes." Sylvia said pointedly. "You should know that—you killed them, after all. Personally, if you hadn't slaughtered them, _I_ would have, so kudos. But as far as I am concerned, you can keep your upper class goody-goody-Miss-Lady crap to yourself. I don't change my language or my attitude, no matter who sits in my company. So I'd hope you would do me the same respect and stop acting."

"Acting...?"

"You didn't come here to talk, have coffee, or just catch up on good times. You came here for a reason. And you came by yourself, knowing I hate Tabitha. That wasn't by incident, that was on purpose. You're buttering me up. That tells me you want something from me. So, what is it?"

Barbara drank the last of her coffee, scooting it across the surface so she could put her hands on the table. She looked as though she might try to argue her way out of Sylvia's observations but seeing as she was caught in the act, a small smile tightened her lips.

"Fine." She said softly. "You caught me."

"An admission of guilt," Sylvia chuckled. "I bet Strange didn't get that much from you, did he?"

"Well, he got something, obviously."

"Right. Because you have a certificate."

"That's right. I do."

"Congratulations, by the way." Sylvia said, smiling sincerely. "I've been in that place a few times. Not as a patient, but as a guest—and one time, as an intruder. The place looks and sounds like hell, from what Oswald has told me. I can't imagine what it was like being in there. So congratulations for getting out. I mean it."

Barbara sighed, shrugging a shoulder carelessly: "That's the past. I can't live in the past. I can only live in the present."

"True. Good outlook."

"Yes. It's helped me move forward."

"So where are you living now?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Butch kicked you out," Sylvia recalled, gesturing to her. "You were creeping him out or something, I don't know. He kicked you out of the mansion. I just wanted to know where you were living."

"Why, so you can kill me?"

At this, Sylvia frowned.

"I don't want to kill you, Babs." She reassured, leaning forward. "I _do_ want to help you. If you needed somewhere to stay, I would be able to help you, you know. While you're, by no means, the same person you were when we met, I still consider us to be friends….in some weird, awkward, frenemy type of way."

"I'm living with Tabitha."

"Now _her_ on the other hand—"

"Liv."

" _What_?" Sylvia responded defensively. "You _know_ what she's done. She isn't innocent, by any means."

Barbara chuckled, "Oh, I know. Believe me."

Sensing that she meant that in a whole other way, Sylvia rolled her eyes and decided not to discuss Tabitha Galavan any further. However, the topic itself seemed to relieve whatever tension that had been stirred up, and Sylvia felt herself become complacent enough.

"For what it's worth. I prefer you this way."

Barbara smiled: "Well, thank you. I like me this way too. So….do you care to listen to what I have to say?"

"If you buy me another latte, I might."

"Deal. _Waiter_!" Barbara called, signaling the waiter over to them. She glanced in her direction, saying, "I hate these people. They never come over in time."

Sylvia frowned: "I used to _be_ a waitress."

"Oh…well, then I take back what I said."

"Mm-hmm. The damage is done, Babs. Let's just accept it and go on."

The waiter came by, took Barbara's order for two more lattes, and was about to leave but Sylvia made a soft sound so that the waiter returned back to the table, expectantly. He was a tanned man who wore polished black shoes, pressed and creased pants, and a steamed white shirt. Everything about him was squared away, not even a lock of brunette hair stood out of place.

She looked him over, while Barbara watched interestedly.

"Hi," Sylvia greeted sweetly. "What's your name?"

"Byrd."

"No, your first name. What's your _first_ name?"

"Demetri."

"'Demetri'. How old are you, Demetri?"

"I'm eighteen."

"Eighteen? You don't look a day over fifteen."

He was muscular, toned well in his forearms and biceps. He even had some definition in his chest and neckline. While he actually did look his age, Sylvia found his reaction to her compliment amusing as he damn near blushed to the color of a tomato.

"How long have you been working here, Demetri?"

"A few months."

"Do you like this job?"

"It's...it's okay."

"How's your boss?" Sylvia interviewed.

"He's…also okay."

"Do you mind if I ask how much money you're making in an hour?"

"No, ma'am. Um, I make about seven dollars."

"In an _hour_?" Sylvia responded incredulously.

"Yes, ma'am. Well, that's without tax, you know."

"Mmm."

Demetri cleared his throat and said curiously, "Ma'am, if you don't mind…Why are you asking me these questions? Did…Did I do something wrong?"

"Wrong? Of _course_ not," Sylvia said, smiling sweetly. "You're doing a fantastic job, love. In fact, I was wondering whether or not you would be interested in making a better wage?"

"I mean…sure?"

"It wouldn't be for _this_ kind of work," She explained, gesturing to the coffee shop. "Have you heard of a place called 'Lean on Vee's'?"

"Yeah, I've heard of it."

"You look like you're in really good shape, like you take care of yourself. Have you ever been a bouncer before?"

Blushing harder, Demetri let out a nervous laugh, "Well, I don't think—I mean, I've never been given the chance to **be** one…"

"Do you have any kids?"

"No, Ma'am."

"What about a wife or husband?"

"No, Ma'am."

"Are you easily intimidated by people?"

"Only beautiful women." Demetri answered.

Barbara, who had been watching the conversation with subtle interest, chuckled, "Ooh, _smooth_."

"Shut up, Babs." Sylvia hissed.

Demetri seemed shot down by Barbara's comment but he glanced appreciatively at Sylvia, who stood from her seat. She asked for a piece of paper and pencil, both of which Demetri eagerly gave her. She wrote down the address to her club, the duty hours, and then her own phone number.

"If you want the job," She stated, business-like, "it's yours. You seem like you can take care of yourself." She gave him a once-over. "Strong. Muscle-y." She poked his bicep, adding, " _Very_ muscle-y. Tell me, do you bench press?"

"About two-hundred."

"Hm, I got you beat," Sylvia said, smirking at him. "We're gonna have to fix that, got it? I'll even pay you for your time in the gym as long as you are able to intimidate my Regulars into _not_ destroying any more of my furniture."

Sylvia glanced at Barbara, ignoring Demetri for a second as she explained, "There was a bar fight the other night, and I've never had to order so many repairs in the past."

Demetri smiled shyly, saying, "What…What will I be making an hour?"

Both women glanced at him simultaneously.

Sylvia answered him: "I'll start you at about fifteen an hour. If my Regulars don't scare you the first week, your paycheck doubles. Acceptable?"

" _More than acceptable_! I'll do it, I'll do it! Wh-What should I wear?"

"Whatever you want. But make sure it's decent, you know. If I come into work and I see your bits and pieces hanging out of a speedo or something, I'll have to kick you out, got it?"

"Yes, ma'am! Thank you, ma'am! Oh my god….!" He praised, and he was about to leave before Sylvia pulled him back by the collar of his shirt. He looked surprised.

"Don't forget the lattes."

"Oh, right! Right!" He left shortly to fix them.

She watched him do so and then sat back in her seat. Barbara looked plenty amused.

"That's how you find people, huh?" She asked, smirking.

"That's how I find **my** people." Sylvia confirmed victoriously. "I find people who want to prove themselves, or who want respect. Normally, I just take people off the streets, you know. Give them a job, some food—once I do that, they're normally glued to me."

"So why him?" Barbara sniffed, glancing after the waiter, clearly unimpressed. " _He's_ not homeless."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Look at how he's dressed."

"Well, you can't go off looks. He could _be_ homeless. He could wear the same clothes every single fucking day until he gets enough money to put them in the wash so he can come to work and earn more money. You never know."

"Classic Sylvia Gordon," Barbara sighed. "Always cheering for the Under Dog."

"Damn straight."

"And marries them too."

Sylvia shot her a warning look.

Demetri came by with the two vanilla lattes. Sylva gave him a fifty-dollar tip. He looked like he might have had a heart attack when he saw how much she'd given him. Gently, she pulled him to the side. He looked like he was ready to do anything for her.

"Let me ask you a personal question."

"Anything, ma'am. Anything!"

Sylvia said quietly so only she, Demetri, and Barbara could hear her: "Are you living anywhere right now?"

Demetri turned that familiar shade of red. This time, to his chagrin.

"Ma'am, I…I don't know what you mean."

Barbara watched him with a predatory gaze, eager to know whether Sylvia's hunch was correct. There was nothing at stake, except for the man's humiliation.

"You know what I mean." Sylvia responded softly. "Tell me."

Demetri's eyes were glossy, like he was about to cry. His face appeared nearly sunburnt as his shame came to the surface. In a voice barely louder than a whisper, he said, "Ma'am…I don't live anywhere. I-I live in a car. It's…not even my car…I…."

"That's enough." Sylvia reassured, patting his shoulder.

He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, looking at her fearfully. He hoped that his truth didn't befall him in what looked like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. To his amazement, Sylvia's words were not only comforting, but shocking to him.

"I don't want my staff sleeping in cars…especially in one that doesn't belong to you. I don't need that on my conscience. Now, Demetri. If you want to work for me, you'll have to come to work looking your best. In the same way you look now, you got it?"

Demetri nodded.

"Here." Sylvia took out a checkbook, wrote a check, ripped it out of her book, and placed it in his hand. "You take this, you go to the bank, cash it _now_ , and find yourself an apartment that you can afford. Preferably nothing in the Narrows, okay? I've conducted business disputes there, and let's just say, it's _not_ the best."

"Right, ma'am. Right. Oh, thank you, thank you, _thank you_ —I can't even begin—oh my god, _thank you_ ," Demetri said repeatedly, shaking Sylvia's hand vigorously.

"Okay, okay," Sylvia said, taking her hand out of his grip. "No problem. You can leave now."

"But my boss—"

"I'll tell him." Sylvia reassured.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Demetri bowed to her and then quickly left. Sylvia sat back down, looking at Barbara, who looked back at her with a knowing smile.

"You _knew_ he was homeless." She said slyly. "Didn't you?"

"Mm-hmm. Been watching him come into this shop with the same outfit over, and over, and over, and over again. And I was in need of a bouncer for quite some time."

"I'm surprised you didn't offer the job to Jim."

"Well, I did, but he refused."

"Good ol' Jim."

"Yeah."

"Still holding onto that White Knight complex?"

"By a thread."

"So, is Demetri Byrd the only reason you agreed to come meet me at this coffee shop?"

"Yep." Sylvia sighed contently, leaning back in her seat and relaxing her arms on the back of the couch-like booth. "I figured if you were going to come here on business, I'd conduct a little of my own. Speaking of business, what is yours?"

"Nice segue."

"Thanks! I thought so too."

Barbara sipped from her second latte, and said with her own business tone, "I want a club."

"Pardon?"

"You heard me."

"I'm guessing the art gallery doesn't have the same appeal to you anymore."

"' _Art_ '," Barbara scoffed. "I think I only owned that gallery just to attract wealthy men and women."

"Well, that really backfired on you, didn't it?"

"Well, I admit that Montoya and Jim weren't the people I had in mind when I opened the club, but _you_ were."

Sylvia cocked an eyebrow, saying humorously, "Whatever gave you the impression I was rich back then?"

"I figured you'd have eventually gotten to that point." Barbara said, smirking at her. "What with you robbing banks on a biweekly basis. You'd have found your way to me eventually if you hadn't married Penguin."

"You mean the ' _Under_ _Dog_ '."

Barbara found her own tease biting her back, but she climbed down from her pedestal and chose to take the heat; after all, she'd been so daring to stoke the flame.

They drank from their lattes for a minute before the business was further conducted.

"You want a club," Sylvia said, encouraging her to continue.

"Yes."

"You need money to _start_ that club."

"I'm well aware of that."

"And you're coming to me for that reason?"

"Is it not that obvious?"

"I just wanted you to say it. After all, I feel like I deserve that much."

"For what?"

"For the crap you pulled at the church."

"What crap?"

"Oh, please, like you don't remember."

Barbara shrugged innocently.

"You kidnapped Jim and Lee, brought them to a church, and held the two of them at gun point. You tried to kill the both of them!" Sylvia reminded harshly, making Barbara flinch. "That was a lot of unnecessary stress you put my family through. And that's just the crap _you_ did. Should I tack on the times where Theo Galavan was actually involved? You know, when he was holding Gertrud for leverage over my husband's head?"

"I wasn't involved in that."

"You knew about it, didn't you?"

"Well, of _course_ I knew about it, but I wasn't a part of it."

"You played a part in _all_ of it. You didn't do anything to stop it. Taking that into consideration, you were involved, whether complicit or otherwise."

"I fell off a church and I was in a coma for weeks. That wasn't enough?" Barbara asked indignantly.

Sylvia gestured to their situation and said smoothly, "Obviously not."

"Well, I'm sorry for what I did."

"Which part?"

"For what happened with Jim."

"But you're not sorry for what you did to Lee?"

"Lee can suck my left nut sack."

"Since you don't have one, that means little to me," Sylvia remarked, grinning widely. "Normally, I'd tell you to fuck off. But I'm trying to be more forgiving, you know? A little more lenient. So, this is what I want in exchange for giving you a down payment for your club. I just want to hear you say 'I need money from you, Sylvia'."

"You just want to gloat, don't you?"

"Oh yes! Yes, I _definitely_ do!" Sylvia laughed. "This is fun for me. I'd be happier if I had Tabitha begging for it, but let's be honest: We wouldn't have gotten this far in conversation if she had been here."

Barbara sent her a look of absolute loathing.

"Just be happy that I'm not asking you to do anything so risqué. They're just words, you know. You don't even have to _mean_ it. Just say the words."

Barbara rolled her eyes and scoffed, "Fine, fine…I want money from you, Sylvia."

"Nope. Not the same."

"I said it!"

"You don't 'want' money from me. You 'need' it. After all, that's why you're coming to me, isn't it? You can't get it anywhere else—except for robbing stores, or what-have-you. But you're classier than that, aren't you, Rich Girl? Why rob from anyone else when you can just make a deal with me? And for what you're getting, I'd say it's a really damn good deal." Sylvia said smugly. "Now, say 'I need money from you, Sylvia'. You say that, exactly. Then we have a deal."

Barbara groaned and managed with a forced smile: "I need money from you, Sylvia."

"Cool." Sylvia said happily. She wrote a check and then handed it to Barbara, who reluctantly pocketed it in the front of her blouse. "Just so you know, that felt _really_ good."

"I'm sure it did," Barbara returned sarcastically.

Sylvia drank the last of her latte, and watched Barbara look at her with some amusement. She checked her phone for any messages.

Oswald's had come in about ten minutes ago:

 _I love you, Pigeon._

She sent one back:

 _I love you too, sweetheart_

Sylvia said lightly, "What kind of club are you thinking of building?"

"A nightclub."

"Do you have a name for it?"

"I want it to be called 'The Sirens'."

"Is it an all-woman's club?"

"No. It's just going to be owned primarily by women."

"Just women."

"Yes."

"And by 'women', I assume you mean it's going to be owned by more than just you." Sylvia said coolly.

"Liv…."

"You don't hang around many other women, so that must mean you want Tabitha in on this as well." Sylvia figured it out before Barbara could put a little positive spin on it.

"Liv, she doesn't want the club. _I_ do."

Sylvia crossed her arms, almost in a pout. Still, her voice was calm, however, it did contain a tinge of resentment: "You wanted me to give you money for a club _you_ want but you and _Tabitha_ are going to run it. That's what you're telling me."

"Basically."

She scooted out of her seat and then sat directly beside Sylvia, who watched her with curiosity, if not suspicion.

"I should rip up that check right now." She uttered through gritted teeth. "I **hate** that bitch."

"It's a favor you'll be doing for _me_. I'll owe you one in return. I know how much you and Oswald appreciate favors." Barbara mewed as she made a sweet, pouting baby face: "Please, let me have the club? Please? _Pwetty, pwetty_ please?"

When Barbara put a hand on Sylvia's thigh, Sylvia didn't just get out of her seat; she hopped over the table, and jumped down on the ground.

" _Whoa_ ," Sylvia gasped. She held her hand out to Barbara, almost cautiously, as she said, "It's not that I _wouldn't_ take that offer. I wouldn't—couldn't—Never mind, _look_ , if you want the club enough to try and do…well, _whatever_ it is you were about to do, then **fine** , I'll let you keep that check. But none of _that_."

"You've thought about it, haven't you? You and me…"

"Who hasn't." Sylvia said, glancing up at the ceiling. It was her turn to feel her face get a little hot from the thought. To save her dignity, she said strictly, "From here on out, our relationship must stay professional. Nothing more."

"Understood." Barbara acknowledged, smiling. She stood and held out her hand.

Sylvia shook it.

"Just so you know," Barbara said lowly, stepping closer to her. "Your demands—whether they were risqué or not—were lenient. Still, you had me in the palm of your hand."

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, let's just say…I know _I_ have thought about us. On more than one occasion." Barbara said, smiling wickedly. Her lips grazed Sylvia's cheek, as she whispered, "When I'm in bed, left alone with _that_ thought, I daresay it's climactic."

She kissed Sylvia on the cheek, but her lips lingered too long for it to be considered a 'Euro-kiss'. She pulled away, smiling impishly before waving ("See you later, girlfriend"), and then she was out of the coffee shop.


	10. A Mother Hen To Us All

Chapter Ten: Mother Hen To Us All

* * *

Sylvia came home around dinner time. As she strolled through the front door, she noticed Mr. Bell sitting in the living room. That alone was an interesting sight; she'd never really seen him sit before, at least, not without permission of any sort. He was always doing _something_ : walking, strolling, standing, cleaning, fighting (when she and Mr. Bell had been training)...but never really _sitting_. And he had the saddest look on his face; perhaps a death in the family?

When she came into the living room fully, Mr. Bell glanced up at her.

"Bonsoir, Monsieur Bell." She greeted, trying to cheer him up. He had a trace of French descent, and she aimed to cheer his spirits with his native language.

"Bonsoir, Madame."

Sylvia looked at him curiously. He never looked so sad. She approached him and sat in an armchair in front of a lively fireplace, looking across at her manservant, empathetic.

"Quel est le problème?" Sylvia asked, concerned.

Mr. Bell lifted his eyes to hers and said sadly, "I have osteosarcoma."

Sylvia's eyebrows stitched together, understanding that this wasn't good news at all, but not understanding the gravity of it. At that moment Olga walked into the room to clean a few things before registering Sylvia's serious glance. Immediately, the housemaid excused herself in her own native language before she left the room.

"What is that?" Sylvia asked gently.

"It's cancer."

"Cancer. You have it?"

"I was just as surprised as you are."

"But how did you find out?"

"I went to the doctor."

"You went to the…?" She gasped.

"Yes. Mr. Cobblepot noticed I was in pain and he strongly recommended that I see my physician. I refused initially, but…Anyway, I went and they found it." He held out his hands sentimentally. "Apparently, it has been there for a while. I've been in pain, but it's nothing I couldn't handle, you know."

"Of course."

"If I hadn't fallen on the table—"

"—Well, you broke the table—"

"—That too. We wouldn't have known."

Sylvia bit her bottom lip, uncertain what to say. It was the first time she'd been stumped in a long time. She could handle torture victims, but when it came to heavy situations such as these, she didn't know what to say. What _could_ she say?

"Monsieur Bell…."

He held up a hand, to stop her from speaking.

He said softly, "I know what you're going to ask. It doesn't look good. I'm at a survival rate of 5 years; that's optimal. However, the cancer has spread so much that my chance of surviving to at least the five-year mark is fifteen to thirty percent. That's what the doctors are telling me, at least."

Sylvia stared at him.

Sportingly, she said, "Mr. Bell, I'll be honest. I wouldn't put much worth into what these Gotham doctors have to say about 'health'. These are the same people who—"

"Sylvia, it is what it is."

She nibbled on the inside of her cheek nervously.

"Are you seeking treatment?"

"I'm getting on in age." Mr. Bell said quietly, lowering his hands to his knees. "My back hurts all the time. My knees hurt…people are starting to notice now. For a while there, I thought I would be able to hack it, get through it, but I'll be honest. I've fought for a long, _long_ time. Now, where I am and knowing why I've been the way I've been, I'm just tired of fighting."

He held out his hand. She gingerly put hers in his palm. It was like a child's in a gorilla's hand.

"Mr. Bell, you're not this type person. You don't lie down for anyone or anything. You fight."

"This is different."

"What's different?" Sylvia responded; her voice hitched with a pain he didn't fail to notice. "It's cancer. So what. People live through stage four cancer _all the time_. People are coming back from the dead with supernatural strength and abilities, and there are cures to things that I didn't even know existed. And you think cancer is the end-all, be-all? Fuck that. It's not, it's—"

Mr. Bell laughed quietly. But it wasn't joyful. Not really. It was like he was nostalgic, like he had heard Sylvia's pep talks one too many times, and perhaps this was a time where she thought she could get through to him. Mr. Bell smiled at her appreciatively; despite the sadness in them, it reached his eyes.

"I've lived through wars. I've been on both ends of the torture routine. I've fought alongside my friends, and I've been more than happy to fight alongside you. You are the protege that I never thought I could ever have. You learned everything I taught you so quickly, and I fear that I have nothing else to give you."

Sylvia took her hand from his, staring at him.

"Why do you sound like you're saying good-bye?"

Mr. Bell stood painfully to his feet. She, however, remained still.

"I want you to remember me as you see me right now," He said, puffing his chest out so he appeared younger, more confident. "I want you to remember me as your mentor, as your trainer. I don't want you to see what I look like after chemotherapy treatments, or whatever else comes next."

"So, you're leaving?" Sylvia questioned knowingly, standing. She couldn't keep her voice from cracking.

Mr. Bell wasn't a stranger to her anger. He looked at her when she spoke, noticing the strength of her angry lines diminish her empathetic glow.

"After everything we've been through, you're just going to leave?"

"It's my choice—"

"You work for _me_ , Mr. Bell. I'm telling you to stay." Sylvia ordered. Tears started clouding her vision. A pang, an aching pain was growing in her chest, like she had swallowed a larger piece of meat than she should have. It almost choked her.

"Sylvia—"

"You can't leave. Your place is here, with me, with us. This is your home."

He opened his mouth to speak but she was readily firing off anything in order to keep him from talking any more. Her thought process was child-like: if he couldn't say where he was going and what he was doing, then he couldn't.

He started to leave; he couldn't bear to see her cry. Not a strong woman like her.

But as strong as she was physically and as mentally tough as she had become, Sylvia had no restraint or toughness when it came to her staff. She was emotionally attached to them, all right. As Mr. Bell had begun to leave, her hand shot out, grabbing his sleeve so he couldn't escape.

"You can't go."

"Sylvia…."

"You just can't!"

Mr. Bell attempted to pull out of her grasp, but she kept holding on. She was almost like a child. For him, it was like seeing one of his children crying because he was about to leave home. Like he'd done before. He came back then.

"You're the closest thing I've had to a Dad in a while. Please don't go. Please. _Please_."

Mr. Bell stopped pulling away. Instead, he gathered her into his arms and waited for her cries to ebb away, for her tears to stop falling. Mr. Bell had watched her fall apart, and due to this, they were both on the floor; his back against the foot of the armchair and Sylvia on the floor with him.

It was at that point when Oswald entered the room, having heard the commotion from the kitchen. He saw the scene before him, and he looked to Mr. Bell for an explanation. The latter made a gesture to himself then to Sylvia and Oswald immediately registered his meaning. Apparently, the same news that had been brought to him earlier by the manservant himself had now been given to Sylvia as well.

"I have a plane to catch," Mr. Bell said gently, lightly tugging her hands from his sleeves. "I'm going back home to Nebraska. I must see my family."

"You can't go…"

Yes. Like a child, Mr. Bell thought. Why would she care if he missed his flight? Why would she care if he couldn't see his family for another month or so? All she wanted was to keep things normal for just a moment longer.

Sensing that Sylvia would be a problem, Oswald and Mr. Bell exchanged unfortunate expressions. Considering that Sylvia saw Mr. Bell as a father, it would only make it worse. Her father had a certain detachment, it seemed; whatever her detest towards the DA lawyer proved to be, Sylvia still had a daughter's love for him; it wasn't the same love as Jim Gordon's, but a father was a father, even if he did favor her brother more and made his favoritism known. Now that Mr. Bell was on his way out and he'd likely never visit Sylvia again after this, Oswald was certain that she was having a replay of the night she'd lost her father (and possibly her mother).

Yes, this would be a problem.

"Sylvia…." Mr. Bell said weakly. "Please. _Please_ don't make this harder for me than it already is."

"You're not going anywhere," Sylvia said evenly as Mr. Bell stood up.

"Mr. Cobblepot, would you…"

Oswald sighed and walked over to them, anticipating the worst as he tried to collect his wife; Mr. Bell pried Sylvia's hand off his arm.

"Sylvia," Mr. Bell said patiently. "You're the daughter I never had. I love you like my own. But you must be strong, okay? I know you can be. You're intelligent, and stronger than I've ever been. I've never been prouder."

"You can't go. You can't. Please, stay. _Please_?"

Mr. Bell looked at Oswald, a cue. He nodded. Mr. Bell started to leave. And Sylvia Cobblepot, who was currently thirty-two years old, threw herself into the mindset of a devastated five-year-old. There had never been a worse temper tantrum!

Mr. Bell sprung for the door, picking up a suitcase that had been sitting by the entrance. Outside of the mansion was a cab that had been waiting for him. He took one look back, smiling sympathetically at her, before he headed out to meet the driver. Meanwhile, Oswald grabbed Sylvia, locking his arms around her, hoping to god she wouldn't fight.

His hopes were immediately dismissed as she pushed him off; she even had gone so far as to decking him in the jaw in order to get to the butler before the cab driver whipped out from the driveway on the way to the airport.

"Gabe!" Oswald shouted. " _Butch_!"

Gabe and Butch, both of whom held tranquilizing syringes, ran into the room. All of them had been anticipating that this would happen once the news had been given. It took all three of them and four more syringes to get Sylvia down on the ground.

Ten minutes later, she lied on her stomach, her head in Oswald's lap, fully sedated; he, Butch, and Gabe were slowly trying to catch their breath, all of them sitting on the floor.

"See." Butch said breathlessly, glancing at Oswald, who rubbed his jaw where she had hit him. "I _told_ you she'd react this way."

"It's sweet though," Gabe said, smiling a little. When Oswald and Butch stared at him, he added, "It's nice to know she cares this much. About all of us. Mother Hen to us all."

To this, neither Butch nor Oswald could contest.


	11. Jim and Sylvia's Mother

Chapter Eleven: Jim and Sylvia's Mother

* * *

"I'm glad you came," Oswald told Jim as the latter was escorted into the living room by Olga. Once Jim was in the room, she quickly left to finish her chores.

"I doubt I had a choice," Jim responded hoarsely. He sat in an armchair, opposite of Oswald's. "Where's Sylvia?"

"In bed, asleep." He answered, sitting down to mirror Jim.

"It's four-thirty in the afternoon."

"Yes, it's actually part of the reason why I've asked you to come. Would you like something to drink?"

"No thanks. What's wrong with her?"

"Hear me out," Oswald warned.

The caution alone made Jim suspicious. But since it pertained to Sylvia, Jim doubted Oswald would have done anything harmful to her. The situation itself may have warranted the temporary break of whatever statute of limitations Oswald had regarding Sylvia. Even if that was the case, he was prepared to listen, but his fists remained clenched on the arms of his chair.

Oswald told him what happened, regarding Mr. Bell's condition, as well as his departure.

Once he mentioned the syringes that had ultimately put Sylvia on her ass for the past twenty-four hours, Jim stood up suddenly, grabbed Oswald by the collar of his shirt, and said furiously, "You _drugged_ her! Why the hell would you do that! What the hell were you _thinking_!"

Familiar with Jim's anger, Oswald quickly held up his hands and said, "You know how she is, **Jim**. She was fighting—"

"—So, you _drug_ her—"

"—I had no other options—"

"You could have tried talking her down—"

"I swear to you, Jim, if that still had been an option, don't you think I would have taken it!" Oswald argued, pushing Jim away from him. "Haven't you realized it yet? Sylvia is not the same person with whom you were raised! You cannot simply restrain her, talk her down, and expect her to do what you say. That's impossible, and _you_ , above all, should know that!"

Hearing him say so Jim frowned, but his fists relaxed, as he grumpily sat across from him. His arms were crossed, and he glared at the fire for a moment, trying to ease his temper, breathing heavily through flared nostrils.

Oswald wondered how long he'd be able to live, seeing as if he wasn't taming the dragon to which he was married, he always found himself on the brutish end of Jim's rage. Although, Oswald had to give himself some credit; he was turning out to become quite the skilled master of both Gordons.

"She tried to fight you?"

"She didn't 'try'. She _did_. She picked up Butch, lifted him above her head, and _threw_ him into the wall. It would have been impressive if it hadn't been so terrifying," Oswald admitted, rubbing his jaw where Sylvia had hit him last night in an attempt to run after the manservant.

Jim smiled proudly in spite of himself; Oswald noticed.

"Well, I'm glad you can find some humor in this."

"Something like that. She's barely five feet. Butch is almost seven feet tall. It's a shame I wasn't there to see it."

"Be that as it may, I have a few questions about your father, if you don't mind me asking."

"Oswald," sighed Jim. "If it wasn't for Sylvia, you and I would have no reason to talk about my father. In fact, you'd probably find yourself with an identical bruise to match the one on your jaw if I had anything to say about it."

"I understand. She's _our_ common denominator. Even then, you have to admit: we tend to cross paths _without_ her help. However, I digress."

"What's your question, Cobblepot?"

Oswald cleared his throat, repositioned himself in his chair, and said as professionally as possible, "When you and Sylvia were younger, did your father ever openly claim favorites?"

Jim chuckled, rolling his eyes: "What'd she tell you? That I was his favorite?"

"Something to that effect."

"Figures."

" _Weren't_ you, though?"

"It wasn't my choice, but I was." Jim admitted sourly, his lip curling in disgust. "If I had any say in the way I was brought up, I would change that. I didn't do anything different that she could have, but, yes, our dad claimed to love me more."

"Why is that?"

"You mean to ask why did he love me more?"

"Yes."

"He wanted a son."

"Hm."

"Like I said, it wasn't my choice."

"You and Sylvia went to the same school," Oswald assumed, gesturing to him.

"Mm-hmm."

"Same classes, same majors?"

"Yes." Jim returned innocently.

"Do you think your father favored you more because Sylvia was frequently getting into trouble?"

"She wasn't _just_ ditching class," Jim stated, the need to defend his father evident in his voice. "We were only in high school and she was skipping class to rob dime stores."

"You are a year older than her. That would have made you a Sophomore."

"Academics were never my strongest suit. I was pulled back and had to repeat eighth grade." Jim confessed to his chagrin. "Moving _on_ , Sylvia could not have helped that Dad liked me more, but she didn't make it any easier either. With her skipping class, committing petty crimes, getting locked up in juvie—that's not something any parent would approve of."

Oswald nibbled on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully, knowing that what Jim said was true. After all, his late mother had a similar reaction of complete shock and devastation when Maroni had poured his own dirty secrets onto the table.

"Did you ever get the sense that your father would abandon her?"

Jim looked at him boldly. In such a way that he felt threatened, and was slowly being backed into a corner. However, he used to be a detective; he could control his emotions…most of the time. But when it concerned his sister, there were many buttons to press, and too many sore spots to poke. At this current time, Jim felt as though Oswald had the stick, prodding him at any angle possible.

"You know what," Jim said curtly. "I think I _will_ take that drink."

"By all means." Oswald encouraged, gesturing to the decanter of scotch and whiskey that sat on the mantle above the fireplace.

Wordlessly, Jim stalked over to it, poured the decanter at least a third of the way in the glass, and then sat back down across from Oswald, who watched him curiously. Jim threw it back, waiting for the alcohol to finish assaulting his nose and throat before he sighed deeply.

He placed the glass on the end table next to the chair.

"Here's the thing," Jim began, looking at Oswald. "If you were anyone else, _anyone_ else, I'd say 'fuck you' and that would be the end of this conversation."

Oswald nodded, having expected that kind of answer anyway. He was legitimately surprised that he had gotten this far interviewing Jim without so much as a 'I'm leaving' comment or something to that effect.

"But," Jim continued. "Even if I don't like it, you're still married to Vee. You still seem to love her, and I know for a fact that she loves the hell out of you…for whatever reason. Seeing that you married to her, you've also married into the family…and all of our dysfunction. So here it is."

Oswald waited patiently. Jim was about to talk, but he shook his head. He grabbed another drink from the decanter, and sat back down.

He said unhappily, "Dad wasn't fair. He made it clear to anyone and everyone, including us, that he loved me more. I was his first born; I was the son. I was more athletic, sporty—I played football in high school. He was the District Attorney, for crying out loud, so he was prouder of me for being in the Army. Sure, I did things that people would have frowned upon, but by the time we were fifteen, Sylvia had been in Juvie at least three times that I can remember. In Dad's eyes, she was a liability, the black sheep, the juvenile delinquent chipping away at his good name."

Oswald said inquisitively, "Was your mother the same way?"

"Our mother was gone by the time I was ten; Vee was nine."

"And your father?"

"He was killed in a car crash."

"When?"

"A short time after I came back from war."

Oswald mulled over the timeline before he asked, "Did your mother pass away?"

"We don't know."

"Did she leave?"

"We don't know," Jim said, shaking his head. He sipped the scotch, saying after, "We have no idea what happened to her. There were some arguments in the past, but I can't remember anything specific. Dad said 'she moved on', but we never saw any obituaries, articles, or anything about her passing. We figured our parents were furious at each other, so they divorced, and our mother abandoned us."

"You believe she left?"

"I don't know _what_ I believe. Frankly, I couldn't care. Mom was Mom. She would come home at odd hours of the night, leave for a few days, but that was her job. She was something of a show girl—in the show business type of deal. Something like what Sylvia does now."

He gestured upstairs where he knew his sister was currently sleeping.

"What about Sylvia? What does _she_ think?"

"I'm not sure. Dead, dying, divorced—Sylvia has a lot of theories about what happened to Mom. But none of them are definite."

"What did your father say?"

"He never did," said Jim mysteriously.

"What do you mean 'he never did'? He had to say _something_ , to explain your mother's disappearance."

"Dad was a lawyer. He could articulate anything to persuade a nine and ten-year-old. Back then, 'she moved on' seemed to make sense."

"Did your mother ever question his favoritism?"

"If she did, we never heard of it." Jim answered, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Mom was compassionate, loving; she treated us the same. Mom and Sylvia had that 'mother-daughter' bond. They were both women, and they were both red-headed. I don't know any other bonds that they could have had, if any. And it didn't seem like Sylvia could care less about either of our parents. Back then, the only people I'd ever heard her claim to love— _truly_ love—were herself, and me."

Jim glanced at Oswald, who merely watched him with contemplation.

"Our family—like any family—had its own drama, its own dysfunction."

Oswald leaned back in his seat, looking at the fireplace with some thought then said pointedly, "Sylvia mentioned that you act like your father, and she acts like her mother." He looked at Jim: "Would you say that is accurate?"

"Dad said Sylvia reminded him a lot of Mom when our mother was younger." Jim returned. "I remember our mother playing jokes on Dad and our Uncle Frank, but they were nothing more than pranks."

Jim poured himself another scotch, drank it fully to the bottom. He grimaced as it burned his throat. The scotch was settling him down; he could feel the alcohol warming his body, loosening not just in mind but his tongue too. Soon he was talking, just to talk.

"Dad wasn't fond of Sylvia getting into trouble, particularly with the police. Even after I went to war, I was getting calls about how she robbed this bank, robbed that bank—the list goes on. Mom was….could have been more understanding if she had been around. By the time Sylvia was getting in trouble, she'd already gone. From the stories Dad told us, she had a dark side of her own. The way he made it sound, he saved her from that path."

Oswald sighed, and rubbed his temples, as though he was still trying to find a certain answer. Jim noticed.

"Why are you asking all of these questions all of a sudden? Hasn't she talked to you about any of this?"

"I only know what she tells me." Oswald answered indifferently. "And that's not much of anything."

"What _has_ she told you? I feel like I've answered a lot of questions. I'd like a little information myself."

"She feels abandoned."

"Is that what she's told you?"

"No. It's what I've gathered." Oswald returned seriously. "Her reaction to Mr. Bell's departure was a little more than what I was prepared to handle. I'll stipulate to that. However, this isn't the first time she has had such an outlandish reaction. At the most, he was her mentor and a trainer. I hadn't any idea that she saw him as a father figure. Her combative behavior worried me."

"So, you called me. You think her reaction had something to do with a childhood thing?"

"I think so. She tells me how your father loved you the most, and that she hardly received his approval. She talks even less about her mother."

Jim chuckled, "You've been with her long enough to know how she is."

"I have to wonder why though."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Oswald said coolly, "If she had to throw a tantrum or get into trouble in order to receive any attention, I imagine this is the reason she behaves as such, especially when someone threatens to leave her."

"That's ridiculous. She's never thrown a fit when a boyfriend threatened to leave her. She kicked them to the curb—and if they did leave, she was more than happy to see them go. Frankly, so was I!"

"Her father never loved her and her mother abandoned the two of you—that's what Sylvia has led me to believe. Is she wrong?"

Jim shrugged, saying, "I won't deny it. But I'm not confirming it either. I told you. Dad _wasn't_ fair. Anything Sylvia wanted, he either downplayed, criticized, or ignored completely. The only time he ever gave her any sort of praise was if she did something that he considered heroic or if she went out of her way to do something Dad wanted. Often times, it was neither of those things."

Oswald sighed, looking up at the ceiling. While he was getting the answers he needed, they weren't really the ones he wanted to hear.

Sylvia had Daddy issues. There wasn't any doubt about that, but he hadn't any idea how deeply rooted her issues had started.

"Do you have any idea where your mother might have gone? Knowing what you know about her….?"

Jim tilted his head to the side and said curiously, "Why are you asking?"

"Call it 'curiosity'."

"What are you trying to do?" He asked suspiciously, slowly getting to his feet. "You're planning something. Aren't you?"

"It's not really any of your business what I'm—"

Jim didn't waste time as he brought his hands down on Oswald, grabbed him by the shoulders, and jerkily pulled him from his seat so he could shove Oswald against the nearest wall as hard as possible. Oswald grunted with the impact; Jim bared his teeth, glaring at him.

"What the hell are you planning—"

"—Jim—"

"—Some kind of double-dealing—" He growled, and he punched Oswald right in the face, and then he let him go so Oswald slumped against the wall.

Before Jim could hit him again, Oswald said quickly, "I'm trying to find her mother!"

Jim's temper suddenly extinguished, and he looked down at him, taken aback.

"Why?" He demanded.

Oswald glared at him.

"Since you want to know so _badly, i_ t's part of my anniversary gift."

He stood up, straightening his suit resentfully.

"And this is your gift to her? What makes you think this will cheer her up!"

"She's distraught _now_." Oswald reminded irritably. "But I believe that by the time our anniversary arrives, she will be in much higher spirits."

"Our mother may very well be dead. Why put Sylvia through more grief than what she's already going through?"

Oswald stepped a pace towards Jim, who watched him like a snarling lion.

"Sylvia thinks she was abandoned. It's bad enough one parent has proven that he didn't love her enough to accept her. Why must she live the rest of her life believing that the other felt the same way, if not indifferent? Judging from what you've told me, I'm fairly certain that Mrs. Gordon _is_ deceased, but just knowing what happened to her will give Sylvia some closure, therefore, peace of mind. And that's a rare gift, seeing as she doesn't get much of that being around _either_ of us!"

Jim frowned. Not because he disagreed, but because he had never heard more righteous words in a long time. And they came from a criminal, no less!

He looked at the ceiling, knowing that's where Sylvia was currently sleeping off her meds. Oswald watched him, waiting. Jim looked at him; when he did, he said reluctantly, "Fine. I'll go to the GCPD tomorrow, see if I can't find anything."

"If you want to make it a business proposition, I'll be more than happy to compensate, seeing as you're a bounty hunter and all."

""I'm not doing this for you." Jim said resentfully. "Give me what you and your goons have come up with so far. I'll be taking care of the rest."


	12. A Learning Experience

Chapter Twelve: A Learning Experience

* * *

In the week that passed, Jim found that if he really wanted to find someone, he would succeed no matter what. Whether that meant having to go to the most prestigious glamour fests to find out that Diana Gordon had been a successful movie star, or to the lowest of lowly neighborhoods to find out that she had sunk all the way to bottom-zero by the time everything was said and done.

Jim sat in a dingy bar, taking up a whole booth with newspaper articles, clippings, data sheets, finances—even medical reports. It was amazing what a son could acquire when he gave the receptionists and medical technicians a story about how his mother abandoned him at a young age and how he just wanted to be reconnected with her one last time before….well…according to the smallest tidbit in a newspaper, the 'before' had already happened.

For a starlet who had been famous enough to be applauded and commended highly by anyone in the upper middle-class region, Diana Gordon's good name had been robbed of all class as the singer/show-woman had drank herself under the table, was caught up in drugs, and the life of crime had overwhelmed her state of mind so much that she'd taken her own life. The only thing she had left behind was a diary, which Jim was reading with a grim expression that steadily became grimmer as he turned each page.

He'd found out through the articles that his mother had died when he was twelve, only two years after she'd abandoned them. In the diary, he read pages and _pages_ where Diana had written how greatly she'd despised getting 'hitched up' to their father, and had the children she'd never wanted nor cared for. According to her, it had ruined any chance of her ever making it into the 'picture shows' (movies) because the C-Section scars had bunked her out of any movie slots, and she never felt as confident in her appearance again. In the diary, Diana wrote how happy she was now that she'd left the 'little shits' with their father, and even though she liked 'the girl' a little more because she had taken after her, Diana still couldn't have stood another minute with their 'tyrannical' father.

The passages went on, and on. Jim hadn't even gotten through half of the diary before he placed it under the pile of newspaper clippings, including the obituary, and asked the bartender if he could have another drink and, yes, _please_ leave the bottle.

He pulled out his cellular phone from the inner pocket of his leather jacket, dialed a number from memory and then waited.

"Oswald," Jim greeted dryly when the receiver had picked up.

"Jim." The voice on the other side sounded so pleasant. "It's nice to hear from you again."

"Are you busy?"

Even though Jim could hear the distorted voices in the background that no doubt belonged to a bunch of men arguing about price deductions, Oswald said calmly, "No."

"This is about what we discussed before."

"Ah…Give me a moment." Oswald returned politely.

There was a short pause, and Jim noticed that the voices in the background started fading, then there was nothing; Oswald had enclosed himself in a quieter location, and at this, Jim was surprised that he felt a little grateful.

"What did you find?"

He glanced at the diary: "It doesn't look good."

"Meaning?"

"Mom died when we were twelve."

"I'm sorry; that's unfortunate."

"From what I've read in her diary," Jim said uneasily, "that _is_ the good news. I'll bring over what I have."

"Tonight."

"What?"

"We'll meet tonight," Oswald declared, "once Sylvia goes to sleep."

"That would be best. I don't want her overhearing."

"I figured as much."

They hung up without saying good-bye. This was becoming all too customary, even for Jim's taste.

* * *

Sylvia sat in her office at _Lean on Vee's_ , primarily going over budget rates. The club wasn't exactly hemorrhaging money, but there was plenty still to teach young Delilah when it concerned budgeting for more than just fancy holiday decorations, and the like. After she had the time to go over this month's bills, Sylvia called for Delilah, who came into the office, appearing more nervous than what was deemed necessary.

"Please close the door." Sylvia said without looking up from the finance book. She flipped a page as Delilah did as she was told, and she stood in front of her expectantly.

Sylvia looked up at her when the woman remained standing.

"Well, have a seat." She chuckled, gesturing to the chair in front of her. "Don't look so scared, Dee. You look like I'm about to throw a book at you for Christ's sake. Here…." She placed her martini in front of Delilah. "Have a drink, it'll calm your nerves."

"Sylvia..."

"We've talked about this." She warned.

Delilah smiled weakly and corrected herself, "…Liv."

"Before we begin, this is just a learning experience, okay? It's nothing you did wrong. You are _not_ in trouble."

"I'm guessing if I was, I wouldn't get to drink this."

Sylvia looked at her once more, noticing her odd behavior. It wasn't like Delilah to walk on egg shells around her, never the less, anyone. After a moment of watching her, Sylvia sighed in resignation, stacked the bills and papers together and folded her hands on the table.

"What's up?" She asked casually.

Delilah's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, and she quickly placed the martini back on the desk. Unnerved, she asked, "What do you mean 'what's up'?"

"I mean it like it sounds. You're acting strange."

"'Strange'?"

"Yes. In the time that I have known you, you've _never_ been nervous. Ever. Not even when these assholes are destroying my furniture or shooting bullets at one another." Sylvia stated calmly, sitting back in her chair. "So, tell me. What's going on?"

Delilah chuckled, "It's nothing, really."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

"Well, it has to be _something_. You're shaking like a leaf in the fall." Sylvia pointed out. "Is it a boyfriend? Girlfriend? Parents? I can understand if parents are causing you some stress; believe me. I'm all too familiar with that department. Is it a sibling rivalry—Come on, young lady, tell me: what's wrong?"

Delilah started giggling halfway through Sylvia's rant-slash-interrogation and the casualness of her voice. That had been Sylvia's point as she smiled, too, when Delilah finally cracked under the lack of tension. The young Goth took in a long breath and then exhaled, gathering her thoughts.

"Well, my boyfriend and I…we've been trying to have a baby."

"And….?"

"Well, I think I might be…you know…but I don't know."

"Have you taken a pee test?" Sylvia asked practically.

"We've done one, but…I think it's wrong."

"What does it say?"

"That I'm pregnant."

"Well, there you go!" Sylvia returned happily, gesturing to her. "Happy day!"

"But they're wrong."

"The test or…?"

"The test. I can't be pregnant."

"Why is that?"

"We use condoms."

"You're trying to have a baby, but you're using condoms?"

"Well, we _stopped_ using condoms, only yesterday. I can't be pregnant now—we've been using condoms up until this point."

Sylvia looked at her for one serious minute before she burst out laughing. Delilah jumped; it'd been a while since she'd heard Sylvia laugh, genuinely. The sound was perky, bubbly, and Delilah couldn't help smile when she saw Sylvia put her head on the table, trying to sober up. When she did, Sylvia straightened in her chair, smiling at her.

"Dee. _Nothing_ is 100% effective. Condoms, IUDs, the sponge—none of it. They're, what, 99% effective, but you still have to account for that 1%. Personally, I've used an IUD for the past five years, and that's still not 100% guaranteed."

"So…I could be?"

"You _could_ be." She handed her the landline phone, adding, "Call the Women's Health clinic in Gotham General. Set up an appointment, get looked at. If anyone can tell you whether you're pregnant or not, it'll be them. The gynecologists—not the general health nuts."

"I can't."

"What do you mean 'you can't'?"

"The last time I went, it was for a pap and it didn't go like it should have."

"I'm not understanding you."

Delilah shifted in her chair uncomfortably, saying, "It's like…it's hard to explain."

"Would I be able to convince you to go if I made an appointment myself?"

"That might help…yeah."

Sylvia called Gotham General, and they transferred her to Women's Health. A same-day appointment was set up so that both she and Delilah could be seen. Sylvia offered to go first and have Delilah in there with her, so the latter could see that nothing would be painful. When the appointment was booked, Delilah watched Sylvia expectantly.

"When?"

"Today," Sylvia answered. "Actually, in a couple of hours, so get your shit together and meet me at the front door in twenty minutes."

Delilah raised her eyebrows incredulously.

"What? It's amazing what you get when you're polite to customer service. Really, the only one thing of value I ever learned from Fish Mooney."

"You're actually going to get one with me?"

"Well, I'd say I'm overdue for one anyway. What better time than the present!"

Delilah and Sylvia then headed to the front. Delilah went ahead to get in the car while Sylvia watched her protectively until the car door closed. She turned to Dagger and Chilly who were waiting; Sylvia said softly, "I'll be gone a couple of hours."

"You still want us to train that Demetri kid?" Dagger asked wryly.

" _Yes_. What makes you think I _don't_ want you to train him? He's a smart kid; he'll be fine."

"Roger. Whatever you want, Lark."

Sylvia smiled beautifully at the both of her guards and then she hopped into the car with Delilah, who sat in the passenger seat, nervously fidgeting with her hands. As they sped off to Gotham General, the radio was cranked up and all you could hear from the Mustang was Cyndi Lauper's hit, 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun'.

* * *

The business meeting had finished prior to Jim's call. When the Heads of the Families had driven off, Oswald was mildly grateful for the quiet that came afterwards. In the silence, he sat in the living room, uncertain as to what he would tell Sylvia when the time came. Really, it depended on the material Jim had found.

Oswald had expected this much to come from his investigation. It was Gotham, after all. Nothing good ever came from the city…then again, he had Sylvia, didn't he? While she wasn't inherently pure of heart and innocent as his mother had been, Oswald could be happy that Sylvia wasn't.

They'd been through a lot together, that much was true.

And tonight, it was their anniversary.

He'd hardly expected any good news to come from searching for Diana Gordon. A starlet disappearing off the face of the earth without so much as a blip on anyone's radar? There was no way that had ended blissfully. Oswald had expected it; so, he'd already created a fail-safe, just in case.

Sylvia was still out, running her club. In her absence, Oswald had tasked Olga with a few instructions that would make their bedroom something out of a romance novel: rose petals on the carpet and bed covers, candles on the dresser, and end tables ready to be set alight. It wasn't the plan that Oswald had in mind, in fact, it was so generic and universal that it made him want to pitch the entire idea into an exploding supernova.

There wasn't enough to be done to express his love for Sylvia. And there never would be, it seemed.

And this news that Jim would bring. How would Oswald tell her? How _could_ he?

The knock on the door had been earlier than he had expected. Oswald frowned, glancing at the time; it wasn't even three in the afternoon, and Jim was already here? Well, Oswald considered thoughtfully, Sylvia wouldn't be home until well past eight; she normally didn't leave the club until the last patron had left and after she'd made sure all of her staff was gone for the day.

Gabe was right: ' _Mother Hen to us all_ '.

He answered the door, saw that it was Jim, and he reluctantly stepped aside so as to let the former detective into his mansion.

Jim carried a black messenger bag, no doubt it contained everything he'd found on his mother. Oswald watched him through leery eyes. Hostility was unnecessary, but hadn't they agreed to a time of the day?

Apparently not where Jim was concerned.

Oswald watched him sit in the living room. He joined him.

"The time we agreed upon wasn't sufficient?" Oswald asked coolly.

Jim ignored him and said unhappily, "Vee isn't here, is she?"

"She's out."

"I figured as much. I have a few errands to run before the day is out…." He explained gruffly, placing the messenger bag on the floor. Almost irritably, he gestured to the other arm chair and Oswald, not being one to anger the detective, sat across from him.

"More of Strange's Monsters to pursue, no doubt."

"More than I can count."

"More to catch."

"And bring them in. The city needs protecting."

"You're a police officer in all, but name. Except instead of catching criminals, you're catching monsters."

Jim glanced at him as though someone had told him the very same thing. Perhaps it had been such a regular observation made known to him that he was almost surprised that Oswald would have made the same notion. Spoken so casually, too.

Not wanting to confirm it with a comment, Jim handed over the messenger bag. Oswald took it, placed it in his lap, and perused the contents with ease. When he found the diary, he met Jim's eyes with mirrored discomfort.

"If you were like your father and Sylvia was like her mother, I doubt I want to read what is written in here."

"It's not flattering," Jim admitted as he leaned back in the chair stiffly.

"I should say not."

Taking his warning under advisement, Oswald turned the pages until he was in middle of the diary. Jim waited for clear indication that he was right; Oswald's eyes flickered over the pages, then he looked up.

"She had a colorful vocabulary," He noted with a subtle smile. "I guess I know where Sylvia gets hers."

"You're telling me." Jim agreed, nodding. He glanced at the scotch decanter on the mantle piece and said with a surprisingly polite tone, "Do you mind….?"

Oswald made an encouraging motion and Jim quietly thanked him, getting up from his seat to pour the decanter a third of the way into the glass, then sat back down.

"Actually…." Oswald muttered as he flipped another page through the diary. "I might have one too."

He began to make himself a drink but before he could do so, Jim was already pouring a second glass as he said, "I'll do the honors."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

And for a second, it was as though their familial bond—even if only by marriage—nearly seemed _normal_. Oswald, the husband; Jim, the brother…brothers-in-law partaking a drink together without harsh words or threats of any kind. Even if it took place while reading the abominable words that Jim and Sylvia's late mother had written prior to completing suicide in her own dingy apartment.

Jim handed a glass, half-full, to Oswald, who took it thankfully.

"She doesn't leave much to the imagination, does she."

"She did _not_ want to be married to your father for too long," Oswald agreed, and he added, "for the past 50 pages, she's made that _very_ transparent."

"We never noticed."

"Never noticed what…." Oswald said distractedly.

"Their rocky marriage."

Oswald looked up at Jim, who rested an ankle over his knee as his thumb smoothed over the crystal cut glassware. The latter seemed to speak to him, but it wasn't made clear whether or not he was knowingly speaking his thoughts aloud. Oswald closed the diary, and placed it on the arm of his chair.

"Most children are blind to it, I think." He said softly. "Whether they just don't see it, choose not to believe it, or otherwise."

"It's like this city."

"Pardon?"

Jim met his gaze, saying, "Our father kept us…well, _me…_ sheltered from Gotham's terrors. Sylvia knew what the city was like before I ever did. Her eyes were open to the truth. I romanticized what Gotham was, or rather, what it wasn't. It took me years to see what Sylvia was trying to tell me."

"Yes. She's quite perceptive."

"Not just that. She told me that the world isn't just black and white. 'It's gray, blue, purple, and lots and lots of red', she said."

"As perceptive as she is, I wonder if she knew anything about this." Oswald uttered, picking up the diary and sifting through its pages pointedly. "Your mother's resentment for marriage, having children."

"If she saw it, she said nothing to me. And if she knew it, she _wouldn't_ have said anything. She wanted to protect me just like Dad."

"Mother Hen to us all." Oswald muttered, recalling what Gabe had said on the night Mr. Bell had departed.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing."

"I'm sure it is 'nothing'. What'd you say?"

Oswald cleared his throat, this time feeling a little embarrassed. He said lightly, "One of my men—or rather, _many_ of them—refer to Sylvia as a 'Mother Hen'. She's fairly protective over all of them, the servants, her staff..."

"… _You_." Jim muttered.

It was Oswald's turn to look at Jim as though he might have misspoken: "I'm sorry?"

"She's protective of _you_." Jim repeated, moving the hand that held his scotch towards Oswald as he lowered his ankle to the floor so he could sit upright and lean forward. "You have _no_ idea how protective. It's actually really aggravating."

"It's not one-sided, I assure you."

"I bet."

There was a quiet moment in which the fire's soft crackling embers were the only thing heard in the entire mansion. Jim took a long drink and he gestured towards the messenger bag.

"With the diary, there are articles." He said hoarsely. "Articles about how Mom was famously known for singing arias, the usual. She was in show business from the time we were toddlers, up until the time she and our father were divorced. All of it was kept quiet, at least from us."

Oswald looked through the articles in the bag, noticing that what Jim said was true. Diana Gordon was not quite a legend, but she'd been renowned for some time before her demise, which was even less documented.

"Her diary entries and the newspaper articles link up," Jim stated as though he would save Oswald the time and energy of trying to decipher that for himself. "The celebrity headlines stopped around the time I was eleven—Vee, ten."

"Why is that?"

"She started getting more into _your_ line of work than in show business," Jim responded, disgruntled. "More arrests, more drug busts—her criminal life took over, took everything she had from her, including her house and car, until she had nothing at all. In the diary, she calls it 'bank- _rat_ -cy'."

Oswald quirked an eyebrow at him curiously.

Jim explained, "She thinks someone was out to get her. Knowledge of her abandoning us got out to the press, leaked through every single newspaper company and network, and that brought down her reputation."

"As vicious as the media can be, I'm surprised that they would have such a passionate response to a woman who would leave her children behind. As unfortunate as it seems, _having_ children didn't ruin her life," Oswald pointed out. " _Leaving_ them did."

"It appears so. But that's not what her diary would have you believe."

"It appears Sylvia dodged a bullet."

"Yeah, but none of this is _good_ either." Jim deliberated, getting to his feet. "It just confirms what she suspects; our mother abandoned us. So now, she has a mother who never wanted her—us—and a father who she believes never loved her."

Oswald looked up at him from his seat, saying, "So what are you proposing?"

"I'd rather Vee not find out about any of this."

"Any of it?"

"Our meeting, the investigation, what we found, the diary—any of it. It would destroy her."

"You expect me to hide the truth from her?" Oswald questioned, standing up as well.

"Well, you're pretty good at it anyway: keeping secrets, hiding truths, lying, typical criminal background," Jim said with a sarcastic grin. "I figure this is your bread and butter. Isn't it, Oswald?"

"I'm a criminal, but I'm an honest criminal."

"Yeah. 'Honest'."

"If you think—"

"She doesn't learn about _any_ of this," Jim warned, pointing to the messenger bag. "This _would_ destroy her."

"If we keep this from her and she finds out from someone else that we did—"

" _Then so be it_! You know what she's capable of, you know how she reacted when a _butler_ left. Think of the consequences, think of what will happen when she finds out that her own mother never wanted her!"

"Fine!" Oswald resigned unhappily. "You have a point."

"Good. I'm glad we can agree on something." Jim mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I have a few things to take care of before the night is out. Do you care to…." He waved his hand at the messenger bag, the diary, and the newspaper articles.

"I'll take care of it."

"Thanks." Jim mumbled. He drank the last of the scotch, adding, "And thanks for the drink."

Oswald watched him for a moment. He looked as though he might say something, but after further thought, he reckoned he'd stay humble and let the former detective leave.

* * *

Oswald stared at the fireplace. His eyes were on the fire, but his mind was elsewhere. Occasionally, he glanced at the clock that sat on top of the mantle piece. It read 8:05 P.M. Soon, Sylvia would be coming home, if not already walking up to the front door. And still, he hadn't summoned the energy or the will to put the messenger bag or the diary away.

He never intended to destroy the evidence. He never intended to hide the truth from her. As such, in his right pocket of his trousers was a tranquilizer dart with enough sedatives to knock out an elephant. He figured if Sylvia didn't like the news, he could put the dart in her neck and she'd go right to sleep—if he even found the opportunity to do so.

The alternative was obviously much more appealing, not to mention safer. Oswald knew himself by now. What Jim said was true; he could hide many truths. How was this any different? How, indeed.

The sound of the door creaking open jolted his thoughts to the present, to the mansion; he heard the soft footsteps of Sylvia's padded bare feet. He glanced up to see her walking into the living room, appearing tired, but otherwise, content, as well as holding her heels in one hand. When she saw that he was still up, Sylvia's head slightly tilted to the side with curiosity.

"Ozzie."

She said his name with such a soft timbre, it made the hairs on his neck stand on end. A light electric impulse teased his fingers and tickled a larger digit of his. Just hearing his name leave her lips—it never got old.

"I didn't think you'd be up," Sylvia said, sitting across from him. She leaned forward, and gave him a kiss.

He returned it.

"I have some news." Oswald said calmly, although his heart was beating so hard, it threatened to beat right out of his chest.

"What is it?"

He pushed the messenger bag towards her feet with his cane, a dark cloud seemingly looming overhead. He wouldn't admit to anyone that sometimes Sylvia scared the ever-loving shit out of him. During moments like this, he wished to God that she didn't. Even now, he could feel his body shivering out of nerves—the idea of lying to her was becoming more appealing.

"I started an investigation," He informed with forced calm. "I had hoped to give you some closure regarding your mother's disappearance. It's not as comforting as I hoped it would be."

"My mother? I haven't really thought of her…" She pulled the diary out of the messenger bag, and looked at Oswald inquisitively. "What's this?"

"I'm certain you know what it is."

"A diary. My _mother's_ diary?"

"Sylvia…."

"Where did you get this?"

"Like I said," Oswald said with a small encouraging smile. "I had someone running an investigation..."

Sylvia held up a hand and Oswald immediately silenced. It wasn't like him to do so, but he figured under these conditions, it was probably best. He worriedly nibbled on the inside of his cheek; a part of him was baiting his hand to reach for that tranquilizer dart already as he watched her.

Her eyes grew watery, cloudy. Still, she kept flipping the pages, reading. She was halfway through before she sniffled, putting the book down on her lap. Oswald watched her carefully, waiting for that ticking bomb explosion, waiting for—well, waiting for _any_ reaction.

"So…Mom didn't want me. Either of us."

"Yes, it appears that way." Oswald consoled.

"And these?"

Sylvia ran her hands through the newspaper articles.

"Pigeon…."

"How did she die?"

"Suicide."

Sylvia's sad chuckle made Oswald's heart dip into his stomach.

"Well, I suppose she would have rather died than ever try to…." She began, but her voice trailed off.

"Honestly, Pet…You're taking this a lot better than I thought you would." Oswald uttered uncertainly.

"I'm surprised you didn't choose to hide this from me, to tell me a happy ending, instead."

"I admit that it has crossed my mind. I've lied to my mother, Falcone, and, really, everyone in between." He said guiltily. "And I'd say I'm very good at it. I _can_ lie to you."

"Really."

"Yes. It's not that I can't. I just won't. My mother always said that a truth with a tear is better than a lie with a smile. I had hoped to give you good news…I won't deny that I thought about throwing all of this in the fire, and telling you a happier ending. As perceptive as you are, as brilliant as your mind is, I knew eventually you'd find out—somehow, someway—I would rather you find out from me than from someone else."

"That's sweet." Sylvia said, smiling endearingly. "As for this" (She put the diary on the floor) "I call it a 'learning experience'."

"A 'learning' experience? What do you mean by that?"

"Well, I know, now, what kind of mother she was. This diary, these newspaper clippings—She has shown me just what type of mother I neither wanted nor wish to become." Sylvia said softly. "However, in doing that, she's also shown me what type of mother I want to be…when we have _our_ child."

"Well, I suppose that's…." Oswald began, but when he registered her words, he looked at her, confused.

Sylvia stood, walked over to him, took Oswald's hand in hers, and placed his palm over her stomach.

She kissed his cheek and whispered, "Happy Anniversary, Ozzie. You're going to be a father."


	13. Happy Anniversary

Chapter Thirteen: Happy Anniversary

* * *

" _Well, I know, now, what kind of mother she was. This diary, these newspaper clippings—She has shown me just what type of mother I neither wanted nor wish to become." Sylvia said softly. "However, in doing that, she's also shown me what type of mother I want to be…when we have our child."_

" _Well, I suppose that's…." Oswald began, but when he registered her words, he looked at her, confused._

 _Sylvia stood, walked over to him, took Oswald's hand in hers, and placed his palm over her stomach._

 _She kissed his cheek and whispered, "Happy Anniversary, Ozzie. You're going to be a father."_

A combination of expressions and emotions came over Oswald's face as he tried to digest the news given to him.

"I'm going to be a dad?" Oswald said incredulously.

He stood, and placed his hands on her belly, as though he was trying to make sure it was _her_ to whom she was referring to as being pregnant and no one else.

"Yes! Yes, you are!"

An emotional man as Sylvia knew him to be, she let out a small " _oh_!" when Oswald suddenly took her in his arms and hugged her tightly. She patted his back, smiling inwardly when she heard him whisper to himself, "I'm going to be a father…!"

* * *

With the excitement of the moment assuaged, Sylvia sat across from him, steadily but sternly ripping pages out of the diary and throwing each crumpled piece into the fire, watching the flame devour it until there weren't even the ashy remnants left. She sat on the floor in her night slip, wearing a sleek baby blue robe; her legs were bent to the side like a lady. In the light of the fireplace, her eyes were as bright as blue ice crystals, and Oswald watched her in awe.

"Are you sure you don't want to just throw the whole book in?" He asked, gesturing to the diary with a little distaste. "Why torture yourself, dear?"

"I call it 'closure'." She said calmly, peering at him under heavily lidded eyes. Her soft remark quelled the rest of his words and once she'd ripped all of the pages out of the book, she threw the cover in the flames, saving it for last. It burned the brightest.

Sylvia crawled the rest of the way over to him, parting his legs so she could kneel in between them. Oswald looked down at her, but his gaze no less revealed how much he thought the world of her.

"Sit up here." He requested, his palms patting his lap.

She did as he asked. He lifted her legs up so they dangled over one of the arms of the chair. One of her hands rested on the head of it, just behind his neck; the other loosened his tie and relaxed the collar of his shirt.

"How did you find out?" He asked curiously, "about the baby?"

"You wouldn't believe it if I told you."

"Humor me."

"Alright, then. What I tell you stays strictly between us, though."

Oswald held up a hand and said humorously, "Promise."

"I'm _serious._ If Delilah hears that I've told you, she will freak out."

"In any case she does, I'm certain my staff and I will be able to handle it. No temper is greater than yours."

As though flattered, Sylvia smirked and she shoved him a little; a playful move that Oswald smiled at.

"Well," She continued, "Delilah wanted to make an appointment with the gynecologist to make sure she was pregnant. She was afraid to go, so I made an appointment with her. Personally, I thought it was going to be quite uneventful but, obviously, that wasn't the case. I went first, got my check up, typical female stuff, yada, yada. I even had my IUD checked, and I took a pregnancy test, just to show her that all was well."

Oswald looked at her quizzically.

Sylvia smiled, saying, "Not _only_ did the doctor find out that I was pregnant, but also, my birth control has been expired for a couple of months. He said—"

"—He?"

Sylvia chuckled at how startled Oswald appeared to find out that the gynecologist was a man.

"Yes, baby. ' _He_ '. Men _do_ become gynecologists."

"Why do I find that odd?"

"I don't know. It's actually very common. Don't think too much on it. The doctor was very professional. No hanky-panky, you know."

"Were you awake the entire time?"

"They didn't sedate me for something as simple as this."

Oswald shuddered. It made Sylvia rediscover just how naive Oswald could be sometimes. All-knowing when it came to Falcone's domain or ruling the empire, all things dirty, underhanded, double-dealing and dangerous, but when it came to babies, gynecology, and females: his knowledge was as expansive as his mother had allowed, and that wasn't very much to boot.

Sylvia took Oswald's hands in hers.

"While there, I was told a few things too." She added. "First and foremost, I have to stop smoking…and drinking. So, bear with me if I seem a little testy. Second: as far as timelines go, I'm 2 weeks pregnant. That gives us plenty of time to start looking into things like baby clothes, shoes, diapers—that sort of thing. And judging from what the doctor said about my cervix, it should become nice, soft, and spongy by the time we get to the point of labor."

"Dare I ask what that—"

"The odds of a miscarriage are fairly low, and the baby should slip out just fine," Sylvia answered him, and Oswald looked relieved by that. "I could continue gloating about my cervix, but I think after a point, I'd only make you uncomfortable, no matter how many times you've come close to hitting it. Not that I'm complaining."

Oswald blushed a deep shade of red. Often times, until these moments, he didn't recognize just how forthright and frank she could become.

"Now that I have you all vulnerable and exposed," She said softly, kissing his cheek. "I want to know something. And I want you to be honest, and tell me the truth."

"Anything."

"Who ran the investigation?"

Oswald's blushing red returned to its normal complexion as he said, "That's irrelevant, don't you think?"

"I'm curious."

"Pigeon…"

"Who _was_ it?"

Oswald lowered his head in defeat and he sighed, "Jim."

"My brother Jim?"

"Yes."

"Fascinating." Sylvia mused, although her smile had faltered slightly. "Let me guess. He didn't want you to tell me about what happened with our mother."

"You're right."

Sylvia's eyebrows lifted a centimeter in surprise as she said, "You don't even want to try to cover for him?"

"Honestly, my dear. Lying to you would really impede on all the progress I've made thus far."

"'Progress'?"

"Check upstairs."

"There's not going to be some weird masked vigilante waiting up there to interrogate me, is there?" Sylvia said suspiciously. "I mean, I'm all for romantic surprises but that's going a _little_ too far."

Oswald patted her shoulder as though to encourage her further. Sylvia stood up and then walked up the stairs, to the bedroom. She smiled from ear to ear when she saw the rose petals on the carpet, how they trailed to the bed; they covered the comforters. The scent of the ocean and vanilla spritzed in the room; the candles on the dresser and end tables, lit.

As she stood within the room, looking around, Oswald remained under the door frame, watching her.

It was the expression he'd waited to see, and although he'd hoped for a grander outcome, he was no less satisfied by the way she looked at him. So tenderly. So beautiful.

Sylvia made a point to sit heavily on the mattress, giggling as she watched the comforter poof up and the petals fell to the carpet, disturbed but unharmed. She started making 'petal' angels, moving her arms and legs as she lied on the bed on her back. One petal floated up and rested on her nose. Sylvia's eyes crossed to see it, then she blew; it hovered up and then flitted down to her shoulder.

She sat up, and wiggled her fingers for Oswald to join her. He sat on the edge of the bed, only for her to grab his shoulders and lift him up and nearly drag him into the middle of the mattress. His head laid in her lap, and Sylvia caressed his face between her hands, as she looked at him, upside-down in his viewpoint.

"You're such a hopeless romantic, aren't you?" Sylvia cooed.

"I have not changed much then, have I?"

"Not in the slightest."

Sylvia placed a petal on the bridge of his nose. Oswald blew and it settled on her leg.

"You're not angry, are you? That I sought your brother out to investigate your mother's disappearance?"

"I'm not angry. No. In fact, I don't think there might have been a better person to do the job. He's become something of a bounty hunter."

"I've noticed."

"Strange's monsters are all over the place," Sylvia uttered, biting her bottom lip thoughtfully. "You'd think the mayor, or the GCPD, would have found a way to track them all down, put them all to rest."

"Do you _really_ want to know what I think?"

"I _know_ what you think of the mayor, Oswald."

He chuckled, "You think less of Aubrey James than I do."

"I still see him as a man with his head in the box. Just because the box is gone, it doesn't change my perspective. He's as irresponsible and lackadaisical as any political official."

"Captain Barnes is back on duty."

"Yes, a fat lot of good _he's_ done." Sylvia responded, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "He stands on the balcony, barking orders. Meanwhile, his soldiers are too scared to act, and the only person whose done _anything_ about the monsters is a man who isn't even on the fucking Force. How _brave_. How _noble_."

"In his defense, he's recently acquired a disability."

"Mm. He limps with a cane. You and him have that same disadvantage and yet you've done a hundred more things than he has. Right along with cowardice, I should add 'laziness' to the captain's fucking career letter."

"Easy, Pet."

Sylvia smirked at him, saying, "I'm surprised you've not pointed any of this out to the media."

"I figured I'd give them time."

"It's been six months. In that time frame, what have they done?"

"I feel like you've given this speech already."

"I mentioned something like this to my brother. You can see how well it got through to _him_."

"I'm a little surprised you've not talked about any of this _to_ the media."

"News reporters leave a bad aftertaste in my mouth. An oily residue. I like talking to thugs and people who like cracking skulls a lot more than people with flashing cameras. Besides, _you're_ my charismatic husband."

Saying so, she caressed his face with her hands, her thumbs softly stroking his cheeks. Oswald turned his head ever so slightly so he nuzzled the palm of her left hand. He couldn't deny how much he loved how attentive and affectionate she was to him.

Oswald nibbled on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully, and spoke his thoughts aloud: "Maybe I _should_ get the media involved?"

"Go for it."

Taken aback by her immediate response, Oswald asked, "You approve?"

"Jim's not part of the GCPD anymore. If you want to antagonize the police, you're more than welcome to. I feel like they deserve it in a way." Sylvia responded, shrugging her shoulders. "They've relied so heavily on Jim, he gets five grand for bringing in _one_ of them. He's no longer burdened with the task of cleaning up Gotham. So, really…who do the people have looking after them? The _Mayor?_ The _police_? Hardly."

Oswald sat up, dusting the petals off him that she'd been languidly putting on his shoulders and face as they spoke.

"Besides," Sylvia purred, catching his attention. "Why would I stop you? I've never stopped you from bothering the police before. I think it'll be kinda fun, you know: put a little spice into the mix, make some noise. And since when did you ever need _my_ approval? Normally, it's been the other way around."

She rested her back against the headboard, and cleverly smirked at him.

Oswald watched her, unable to stop himself, really. Sylvia's hands slipped between her legs, and she slid her panties down her knees as slowly and easily as possible.

"Before you go and ruffle a few feathers, Ozzie…maybe we should make a little noise of our own. It _is_ our anniversary." Sylvia said coyly, wrinkling her nose playfully at him.

Well, he'd never turned her down before. Why would he start now?

Oswald only left the bed long enough to close and the lock the door.


	14. Comfort and Betrayal

Chapter Fourteen: Comfort and Betrayal

* * *

Early in the morning, Sylvia took a walk.

Normally, she'd have a guard with her, per Oswald's insistent request, but for a visit like this, she preferred her company to be solitude. And per her comfort, she wore something inconspicuous: black sweat pants, flats, and a forest green, cotton sweatshirt. While she appeared harmless, she actually had two daggers sheathed in leather bands on her forearms, hidden by her sleeves.

'Harmless' had little on her, though.

In The Flea, most people knew who she was. It was a shopping mall for the homeless, the wretch, and the unnamed. Its Fences came with low-sell values, and priceless marketable sales. If she felt charitable, she even bought a few things just to boost the children's spirits. Once or twice, she'd come just to _give_ money away…she kept this part unknown to Oswald; she never said much to him, but knowing him, Sylvia was certain he _knew_ of her charitable hobby. It didn't impact _him_ financially, after all.

They had separate bank accounts.

A stark, angry-looking fellow stood in front of a dark evergreen door; his eyes were dull, and he had that thousand-yard stare. Perhaps he was a war veteran; or maybe, he was just a man who had seen too much in Gotham. Dark-haired, forgettable face.

"Good morning, stranger." Sylvia greeted with a light smile.

"Ain't good." He sniffed.

"Well, then. 'Morning'. Is that any better?"

"Nothing's better."

"You're a hard character to charm, aren't you?" Sylvia said, smirking at him. "Is that why they placed you at the front lines?"

"I don't like people," He answered, giving her a once-over. "What're you here for, huh?"

"I'm meeting someone." Sylvia answered politely. "I'm actually a little late for my appointment."

"What kind of appointment?"

"One that I'd prefer you kept quiet." Sylvia said slyly. "If you'd let me in, I could make it worth your while."

His cheap grin that came after made her frown.

"Nothing like _that_ ," Sylvia said coolly. She held up her hand, showing her wedding band. "I'm married, see?"

"That's a nice ring. Your husband give that to you?"

"No, I found it in the pit of hell, thought it looked nice, and I paid off the Devil with my soul."

"That's a lot of sarcasm."

"Yes, it is." Sylvia returned. She reached inside the front of her sweatshirt casually, and took out five bills; both of which were twenties each. "Now, I can give you this, and you let me by."

"Or?"

"You don't want to know the fucking alternative, fly boy."

He glanced, and noticed that his zipper was down. He quickly remedied that, before smirking at her.

"I still feel like you owe me a little more if I let you in."

In a matter of seconds, Sylvia had him on his knees, a dagger to his throat, and her voice was acidic as she spoke dangerously in his ear: "Fine. We'll do it the hard way. Open the _fucking_ door, or I'll slit your throat."

"Okay, okay! God _damn_ , no need to be so rough!" He cried. He quickly knocked on the door.

Someone heard and they quickly hopped to it. When a slender fellow answered, he looked taken aback by the sight; a woman, no more than five feet, holding a blade to a man who was at least seven-foot-tall. Once the door was open, Sylvia let him go.

"You can still keep the money, since I'm in pretty good mood. But you know. Manners don't cost anything." Sylvia said unhappily. She smiled sweetly at the young man, "Thank you, sweetheart."

While the large, dark-haired, angry-looking man had no idea who she was, the slender fella told the former, "Why the hell were you trying to hustle her? She's the fucking Lark, man!"

" _That's_ her?"

" _Penguin's_ wife."

"I know _who_ she is—Well, fuck me. I didn't know what she looked like!"

Sylvia grinned inwardly as the argument continued before going on her way. Even though she had some time to get used to hearing her new title, 'The Lark', it still felt weird hearing people call her that. Perhaps it was just a matter of getting over the fact that she was definitely not a morning person. The only thing she had in common with the songbird was its melody. Aside from that….nothing else. Then again, perhaps Oswald had the same bond with his own moniker; the only thing he had in common with a penguin was his walk…

Sylvia strayed in an area that could be called a 'courtyard', since the Flea was something of a shopping mall. Her eyes wandered through the various 'stores'; they all offered one thing: possibly cheap old items for nothing it was valued: a golden watch at $500 when it was nothing more than a $20 one you'd buy at a Walmart; 'real' Cashmere sweaters… _not_ in **this** part of Gotham, surely.

A hand tugged on Sylvia's sweater. Her instinct was to cut the hand off, but she quelled that particular instinct when she turned to see that it was a young girl, standing no taller than her waist. Smiling down at the redhead, Sylvia greeted her with an open hand shake.

"Ms. Pepper."

"Lark."

Ivy Pepper had been enlisted into Sylvia's rank only a few months ago, but she'd not been needed so frequently. Sylvia used other people to find out information, more bruisers than sweet little girls: Dagger, Chilly, Butch, Gabe…and back then, Mr. Bell. Infrequently did Sylvia ever need someone so meek, so quiet…but there was more to Ivy Pepper than what met the eye, if only the young lass was given a chance to prove herself.

"I'm sorry I was late," Sylvia apologized, looking down at her sincerely. "The entry staff are fucking rude."

"Bole?"

"Who?"

"Bole," Ivy said, pointing her thumb behind her to indicate the larger, angry man. "He's _always_ like that."

"Well, he needs to find some fucking manners, doesn't he?"

"I knew I'd like you."

"Well, I like you too."

"Did you wanna go somewhere?" Ivy asked, glancing around. "I don't know where but…"

"I'd rather talk somewhere more private. Probably a stupid question, but do you like ice cream?"

"What kid _doesn't_ like ice cream?"

"Good point."

Ivy shrugged, smiling sheepishly.

"Did you eat lunch?"

"What do _you_ think?"

"You're pretty mouthy, aren't you?"

"No other way to be, Mrs. P." Ivy sighed.

Sylvia grinned broadly, holding out her hand. Ivy took it, and they silently left The Flea. Instead of ice cream in mind, Sylvia went to the nearest hamburger joint, bought them a course meal. It was not as private as she might have liked, but a meeting like this was probably best done in public. There weren't many details for the job just yet. After all, she had only minor suspicions.

"You look different." Sylvia noted, glancing Ivy over.

"New hair style."

It took her a moment to realize that Ivy had been joking and Sylvia let out a delightful chuckle when she got the joke.

"I have a job for you, if you're interested." Sylvia offered, sitting back and wiping her chin with a napkin.

"What kind of job?"

"You want to know the details?"

"I figure I should," Ivy mumbled. "Cat'll want to know if I asked."

Sylvia leaned forward, crossing her arms, saying, "Do you tell Cat everything?"

"Not everything. But she always comes and visits me…you know, here and there. She gives me money, sometimes. But most of the time, she's hanging out with Billionaire Boy."

"Billionaire b…Bruce Wayne?" Sylvia recollected.

Ivy smirked.

"You catch on quick, don't you, Lark."

"You're a quick one yourself."

"Yeah, well, flattery ain't goin' to get you anywhere," She sassed, giving her a little bit of a mouthy look before she started digging into her meal. "These fries are pretty good, where's the ketchup?"

Sylvia flagged down a waiter, who came by and brought another Ketchup bottle. He left quickly. Ivy noticed.

"People know who you are. Don't they?" Ivy said, glancing back at the waiter who was trying to avoid getting flagged down again. "They're afraid of you."

"I'd say they're more about avoidance than fear."

"Still, though. They take you seriously."

"I suppose so."

Ivy munched quietly on her fries a little longer, thoughtfully. After she was done, she pushed her basket with plastic wrappings away from her.

"What's the job, Lark?" She asked more seriously. "If it's killing people, or something, I've never—it's not that I can't, you know."

"Oh, Ms. Pepper. Anyone can kill people." Sylvia rolled her eyes and waved a hand dismissively. "That's not a talent. It's a marketable trade, don't get me wrong. But the trade is a dime, a dozen. Let's be honest; if I wanted someone killed, I'd be doing the deed. I wouldn't let a little girl do it. You're too young—"

Ivy stood on her knees in her seat, her hands on the table.

"I'm young, but I've _seen_ things." Ivy declared fiercely, her eyes wide but fiery. "People don't get that!"

Sylvia clicked her tongue dangerously, and Ivy sensed the warning before the woman in front of her had to say anything. Steadily, Ivy slowly sat back down, glancing around them, noticing, too, that people had started looking in their direction.

"First things first, Ms. Pepper. _Your_ father was taken down by the police, and _your_ mother slit her wrists, and that makes _you_ an orphan. All of that makes it hard for someone like you to make a name in a town where everyone has the same sob story. It's hard to prove yourself when you're standing beside people like Cat; she casts quite the shadow, doesn't she?"

Ivy frowned, a temper tantrum boiling inside. But Sylvia could see it. And it was the only reason Ivy said nothing at this point.

"I, more than anyone else, can understand where you're coming from. You want to be treated like an adult, don't you?" She asked calmly.

"Yeah." Ivy's bottom lip sat forward, in a pout.

"If you want to start acting out like a child, that's how I will treat you." She dipped her hand inside her sweatshirt and pulled out a wad of bills bound tightly in a rubber band. "I don't need the help of a child. I need a spy. Now, if you want to be my _spy_ , then we can move forward."

Ivy took the money, looking at it quizzically.

"Is this it?"

"This is a down payment."

"For?"

"See, now you're asking the right questions, and without Cat's help."

"Yeah, I guess so, but that doesn't answer my question, Lark."

"Well, Ms. Pepper, that kind of talk will have to take place outside of this diner. So…interested?"

Ivy glanced at the money, then out of the window, in the direction of the Flea. Before she could make up her mind, Ivy held out her hand, determination written all over her face.

Sylvia smiled widely, took her hand, and shook it.

* * *

Once her deal with Ivy Pepper had been settled (along with giving the girl something of a meal ticket for the next two days, per Ivy's own condition), Sylvia made her way to the GCPD station.

Back when things weren't so chaotic, the Desk Sergeant welcomed pretty much anyone into the facility without so much as a once-over check for weapons and the like. Due to people like Jerome Valeska, Theo Galavan, Hugo Strange's Monsters, including the one that impersonated Jim Gordon himself, and god-only-knows who or what else, the Desk Sergeant did weapon checks with anyone.

Sylvia was no different.

As she entered through the double doors, she gave a brief derisive chuckle when the sergeant politely asked her to relieve herself of all and any weapons on her. She took off her sweatshirt, revealing a turquoise halter top. She unstrapped the arm guards containing her daggers, and lifted both pant legs where two knives had been strapped to her calves with Velcro. She placed these in front of the officer as well. The Desk Sergeant stared at her with wide eyes, taken aback, by her weaponry before letting her go, although with some hesitation.

She met with Harvey Bullock and Jim Gordon who were standing on the tallest balcony, above the one where Captain Barnes regularly stood, giving orders to his beloved Strike Force.

Harvey smirked at her, chuckling, "Are you sure you don't have any more?"

"Any more _what_?" Sylvia questioned.

"Weapons."

"I'd offer you to do a strip search but I'm too afraid you'll say 'yes'," Sylvia said, smirking when Harvey let out a sarcastic ha-ha, before guiltily grinning at Jim, who rolled his eyes. "How was the bounty tonight?"

She leaned against the railing while the former detective and the current detective leaned casually over it, their hands clasped together solemnly.

"It paid."

"Almost get killed?"

"What do you think?"

"I'd say that was a 'yes'. Thanks, by the way."

"For?"

"Finding out what happened to Mom."

Jim looked at her, startled. Then, as though realizing just what Oswald had done, he growled, "He wasn't supposed—"

"Ohh ho-ho, ho…" Sylvia jeered, smiling cleverly at him. "So it _was_ you who told Oswald not to tell me anything, wasn't it?"

"Tell you what?" Harvey interjected, suddenly taken in by the excitement.

"It's not that I didn't want you to find out—"

"—Tell her what, Jim—"

"Shut up, Harvey—"

Sylvia waved Jim away and stood between him and Harvey, who she addressed with sarcastic cheer, "Well, you see, Harv. My big brother here" (Jim put his hands over his face, exhausted.) "was asked to find out what happened to our dear mother…as a favor to Oswald, you know, like a gift for our anniversary, in an attempt to find me some closure."

Harvey seemed to look as though he wasn't sure whether to be amused like Sylvia or sympathetic to his partner, who by all rights, was facepalming himself pretty hard.

"This White Knight," Sylvia mused, patting Jim on the back, "told my husband _not_ to tell me what really happened to our mother. Or should I even go as far as to say that he even _threatened_ him."

"Vee…"

"Save it." She sighed, waving her hand. "It's fine."

"You know," said Harvey carefully. "When a woman says 'it's fine', it's never 'fine'. In fact, I've learned that it is _far_ from 'fine' than possible, like _humanely_ possible."

"I didn't know how you would've reacted." Jim attempted to explain. "Penguin told me how you reacted when your butler left. A _butler_."

"He wasn't just my butler, James Gordon!"

"Oh, whoa…" Harvey muttered, stepping out of the cross fire. "She just brought out the first-and-last name bit. I'm gonna stay over here, partner. You know…out of the splash zone."

Jim gave him a look that said 'oh, wow, thanks' but returned his attention reluctantly to his sister, who was crossing her arms and looking more than appalled.

"He was my mentor, and a friend." Sylvia said coldly. "He and I were close enough, like family, and I loved him like I was his daughter. He tells me he has cancer, and then he just up and leaves me! Why _wouldn't_ I react the way I did."

"Vee...Oswald told me you picked up Butch and _threw_ him." Jim hissed, an attempt to keep their argument to a low decimal.

"No way!" Harvey guffawed. "You can pick up someone as big as Butch! Man, that is _awesome_!"

"Harvey!"

"Okay, okay...I'm just standing here. You won't even know I'm here."

Jim and Sylvia turned away from him to glare at each other.

"Okay, look," Jim began patiently, holding his hands out. "I guess Oswald knows you better—"

"—Clearly—"

"—but in my defense, you've always been unpredictable. I never know how you're going to react and after Oswald told me what happened, there was no way I could have predicted how you'd have reacted when you found out our mother never wanted us."

"Eesh, _ouch_." Harvey muttered, wincing.

Sylvia gave him a look, and he cleared his throat, choosing to become more interested with the wallpaper.

"You should know me by now. You should be able to predict what I'll do. Mom never meant much to me...if anyone mattered to me, it was you. It still _is_ you."

"Aw, that's touching." Harvey drawled from the sidelines.

Jim sighed, "Bullock, I swear to god, one more word—"

"How about I just get a coffee? I feel like my energy is going down, anyway. Why don't I just, yeah, that's what I'll do. Excuse me, Little Sister." Harvey said, politely squeezing past Sylvia to head downstairs for his cup of Joe.

Sylvia watched him leave, shaking her head as though she couldn't see how Jim continued to put up with him. Her smile outlasted her derision as she looked at Jim, her expression changing from an angry one to that of a familial softness.

"I appreciate you looking after me. You _and_ Oswald. But what happened to you not wanting to lie to me anymore?"

"Vee, it's hard when it comes to you."

"And you're a complicated nut case yourself."

"Well, I'm glad we had this discussion."

"I'm glad too. So, what monster beat you down this time?"

"Some prehistoric buffoon, what the hell do I know. And he _didn't_ beat me down."

"Is that why you're here? To collect your bounty?"

"Maybe."

"Why else would you be here? You're not here to get your badge back, are you?"

"Is that hope I hear in your voice, Vee?"

"Hope? Perhaps it was dread."

"Ha-ha. Real funny."

"By the way, I'm pregnant."

"Well, that's— _what_!"

"Oh, look, Harvey's back. Heyyyy!" Sylvia greeted, leaving Jim to stare after her as she greeted Harvey happily, wrapping her arms around him.

"Now, that's more like it!" Harvey said loudly. "So, we like old Harvey again, huh?"

"I've always liked you. I just can't stand it when you butt into conversations that are meant to be one-on-one. When you do, it's like you're a third wheel while my brother and I are trying to have a moment."

"If you ever need a moment, Liv, you know you can tell me."

"Tried it, did it, never worked—try something else, Harvey." Sylvia said, clicking her tongue.

"So, what are you up to now?"

"The usual."

Jim gritted his teeth, grabbed Sylvia by the arm and pulled her aside, clearly out of Harvey's hearing.

"I was in the middle of a discussion," She reminded coolly.

"I'm aware. What the hell do you mean 'you're pregnant'."

"I meant it in the way it sounds."

"Who's the father?"

Sylvia stared at him and said dangerously, "I'm going to pretend you did _not_ just ask me that."

Jim seemed to realize his mistake and he let go of her quickly, saying just as swiftly, "You know what I meant."

"Yeah, I know what you meant…still, you might want to watch how you word things. I would have been in my right to slap you and no one would have said anything to me about it." Sylvia said harshly. "And to answer your question—however **stupid** it was—of _course_ , it's Oswald… 'who's the father', what kind of idiotic question is that. _Jackass_."

She gave him a hard slap to the back of his head, but Jim took his punishment easily.

"Well, how far along are you?"

"A couple of weeks."

"Are you leaving Gotham?"

"Why would I do that?"

"It's dangerous here."

"It's dangerous _everywhere_." Sylvia reasoned, gesticulating to the entire GCPD. "The safest place in Gotham has become a war zone a few times. And don't you think I know that? I wasn't born yesterday; I don't have 'stupid' written on my face. Even if I _was_ born yesterday, it doesn't matter. Gotham is just as safe as any place else in the world, and, furthermore, it's my home. So, if you think about using _this_ " (She touched her belly) "against me, you've got another rant coming, buddy."

Jim held up his hands cautiously.

"I just want to make sure you're okay."

"Yeah, well, I'm just fucking peachy."

"How does Penguin feel about you staying in Gotham?"

"He and I have spoken. We're fine with Gotham. Gotham is… _Gotham_."

"You're not scared that someone will find out about your pregnancy, use it against you? You're the 'Lark', after all. He's the Penguin."

Sylvia glared at him: "Why did you say it in that tone?"

"What tone?"

"That sarcastic one. You said 'Lark' like it's some stupid remark."

"I said it normally."

"Pfft, you did _not_ say it normally."

"I did!" Jim hissed.

"You so did not. That's like me saying your 'who's the father' comment was smart. Yeah, it's _smart._ "

"Vee, I know—"

"Trust me, Jim. If anyone—and I do mean ' _anyone'_ —tries to hurt my baby, I will cut off their arms and legs, and watch them bleed to death, right before I cut off their head." Sylvia said darkly. "And that's not just a bluff or a threat, sweetheart. That's a fucking promise."

Jim cleared his throat as Captain Barnes alerted the rest of the GCPD that a press conference was being held, and that the 'Honorable' Mayor James would be in attendance.

"So, I guess you'll be leaving," Harvey sighed unhappily.

"Leaving?" Sylvia asked, meeting him at the balcony once more. "Why would I be leaving? I _love_ watching Aubrey James talk out of his hairy butt."

"How do you know it's hairy?" Harvey asked uncomfortably.

"You've not seen the pictures?"

"What pictures?" Harvey and Jim voiced simultaneously.

She shrugged mysteriously. Captain Barnes looked at the balcony, noticed that Sylvia was presiding there, and he shouted for her to come down.

"Well, she'll be going _now_ ," muttered Harvey as he and Jim watched Sylvia stalk down the stairs." There's no way Barnes'll let her stay for the conference."

Sylvia approached their captain, who looked at her with little respite.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He demanded.

"Good evening to you too, Captain," She greeted sarcastically. "Is that how you greet every civilian?"

"Don't act like you're innocent, Mrs. Cobblepot. You've been having behind-the-scene conversations with the Commissioner," Barnes stated, glaring at her. "As much as he talks highly about you, I'd hope you'd be more respectful. Courteous, even."

"You greet me with 'what the hell are you doing here', and you want me to _give_ you respect?"

"Oh _shit_ …" Jim mumbled, putting his head down on the wooden railing.

Barnes' veins in his forehead protruded suddenly, like he might blow a gasket. Sylvia crossed her arms.

"I've not disturbed what little peace you have going on here, Captain Barnes. I've not said a fucking word of disrespect—to you or anyone else. You shout at me from the ground floor, then question my reason for being here, not knowing why I've come here _at all_." She reprimanded. "I _may_ talk to your Commissioner—god knows he's more goddamn respectful than you'll ever be—but you could use a little self-discussion yourself, mister."

Barnes said unhappily, "I think it's best that you leave, Mrs. Cobblepot."

"On a contrary, I think it's better if I stay." Sylvia argued. "I came to talk to my brother, check on him, seeing as he's the only fucking person in this goddamn building doing a single fucking thing about the fucking monsters doing only god-knows-what outside. Now, if you'll excuse me!"

She stomped up the stairs, like a bratty girl going through the phase of her teenage years, but that was to prove a point. As long as she wasn't causing any (more) disturbances, she had the freedom and the right to be inside the station.

Gritting his teeth, holding down his temper, tightening his fist, Barnes growled before leaving to his office so he could soften his anger before the press arrived.

"You're going to give our Captain a stroke if you're not careful," Harvey cautioned gently. "You know, he used to be a Marine."

"Military or not, he should be a professional. Jim is the _only_ person doing anything about Strange's fucking strays, and I wanted him to know it."

"So, he knows it. There's nothing else to be done."

Sylvia smiled inwardly and said softly, "Isn't there?"

Jim and Harvey glanced at one another uneasily.

The press arrived, alongside Mayor James. As promised to Jim prior to their arrival, Sylvia remained quiet, standing in the dark sidelines with him and Harvey, looking on. Barnes took the lime light, standing at what was serving as something of a podium, his hands on the railing as he addressed the flashing lights, microphones, and audio tape recorders.

"At eight-fifteen this evening," Barnes said coolly, "an individual robbed a pharmacy and attacked its owner. While we don't have an I.D. as of yet, we believe that this individual is another escapee from Indian Hill."

The reporters clamored, trying to talk over one another.

One shouted, "Are these monsters dangerous?"

Another tried to get his attention, shouting, "Captain Barnes! Captain Barnes!"

A young tanned, Asian woman with doe eyes pushed through the other reporters, determined, as she introduced herself: "Valerie Vale, 'Gotham Gazette'. Why can't we see the escapee?"

"Because crews are still picking up the pieces."

"This isn't the first time that a bounty hunter has apprehended an escapee from Indian Hill. Is the GCPD incapable of handling the threat themselves?" Vale questioned.

Sylvia glanced at Jim, who tried not to look her way, but he figured she was smirking knowingly.

"Whoa!" Barnes said carefully. "Only a handful of these escapees were brought in by bounty hunters—"

Sylvia leaned into Jim, and whispered, "Ha…bounty hunter _ **s**_ _._ I like the plural. Gives it more 'finesse'."

"Hush, Vee."

"—The vast majority were apprehended by the GCPD," Barnes finished.

Vale looked less than convinced as she transcribed what was being reported.

As though ready to take some questions and relieving Barnes of the heat, Mayor James stepped forth. Sylvia rolled her eyes, muttering, "Oh, _here_ we go."

" _Vee_!"

Harvey muttered, "She's got a point, Jimbo."

Mayor James said strongly, "I take issue with the word 'threat'. These escapees are themselves victims of Huge Strange."

"Hugo Strange," Sylvia mumbled. "Yet another fucker I'd like to see hang by his—"

" _Shh_!" Jim said, tapping her arm impatiently.

Mayor James continued in spite of the murmurs from above and below: "Now if any ordinary, hard-working citizen wants to help get these poor souls off the street, so that they may receive proper treatment, well these citizens should be lauded and rewarded financially."

" _Mr. James_ ," Vale said strictly. "Before they were taken to Indian Hill, these 'poor souls' were all criminally insane inmates at Arkham Asylum, were they not?"

Mayor James looked at her for a second then said quickly, "Next question."

"This is fucking ridiculous," Sylvia grumbled, emitting an inhuman, almost lion-like growl, before she sat down on the edge of Harvey's desk.

"You hear that?" Harvey joked. "You could be _lauded_."

"I prefer the cash." Jim returned.

"How many escapees have you brought in now? Five? Six? Five grand, a pop? That's not bad."

"Yeah."

"And what happens when Gotham runs out of monsters?"

"There are always monsters in Gotham," Jim relayed confidently.

"I really can't get you to come back, huh? Look," Harvey began once he sat at his desk, leaning forward, minding Sylvia's presence for a moment before turning to Jim seriously. "Whatever happened when you went to see Lee—"

Sylvia suddenly turned around, raising her eyebrows: "You went to see Lee?"

"What happened to just one-on-one conversations, doll?" Harvey asked pointedly.

"Shut your face, Harv. Jim, how come you never told me you went to see her?"

"Guys..."

"You know I don't want to pry…" Harvey continued.

Jim flashed him a sarcastic smile, saying just as cynically, "Oh, I know you don't."

"That's because you don't tell me anything! You know? A man's not supposed to be alone. You've got family here," Harvey attempted to persuade. As an afterthought, he put a hand on Sylvia's thigh, adding, "And you've got Little Sister!"

Sylvia picked up Harvey's hand and moved it to his desk, smiling politely but her eyes said all he needed to know. He sent her an apologetic glance before he addressed Jim.

"You don't have any problem chasing down Hugo Strange's freaks."

"Whoa, Harvey. Watch who you call a 'freak'. That's a fightin' word." Sylvia warned.

"Well, we all know you're a freak in the sheets, baby doll."

"How the hell would _you_ know."

"All redheads are, including myself."

"Again. Shut your face."

"Considering I know how mouthy you get," Harvey said smoothly, "I think that's a pretty good compliment, don't you think, Jim?"

Jim rolled his eyes again.

"You're a cop in everything, but name."

"Yeah," he agreed. "But I don't have to listen to Barnes. I can go home when I want, get drunk when I want…And I don't have him breathing over my shoulder the entire time. And at the end of the day, I sleep. Because I know Gotham's not my responsibility anymore."

"Not to poop on your party," Sylvia mused, "but Gotham never _was_ your responsibility. You took it under your wing. _You—_ and only you—claimed it for your own."

"Like your hubby did, huh." Harvey said, chuckling. "'King of Gotham'…that still gives me a nice, evil chuckle. Mwuahahaha!"

"Third time: Shut your fucking face."

"I love poking you, doll. You make it _too_ easy."

"Well, you'll poke too much one day and I'm going to end up shoving a fork into your winking eyeball."

"Phew! That's a little strong, don't you think?"

"Only one way to see."

Harvey raised his eyebrows at Jim incredulously while Jim shook his head.

"In all seriousness, I love you like a brother. But you've gotta stop blaming what happened between you and Lee on the job. And do you _really_ think I don't get drunk when I want," Harvey said smoothly, grinning pointedly as he knocked back a few gulps from his flask.

A few footsteps were heard coming from behind her; Sylvia stood, seeing Lucius Fox. She grinned idly, considering the first time they'd met was back when they all were amped up, armed, and ready to go after Galavan. The most recent included the lot of them being trapped in a holding room where all of them had been drugged in some shape or form by either Strange, Ed, or his orderlies.

"Detective Bullock," He said professionally. "I looked into the drug that escapee was after. It's a powerful immune suppressant."

He noticed both Jim and Sylvia.

"Gordon…Mrs. Cobblepot." Fox greeted.

"See," Harvey continued. "Look at Lucius, here. Our new resident expert on all things scientific. He said 'sayonara' to Wayne Enterprises robots, hmm, and he _loves_ it here."

Jim peered at Fox skeptically. The latter smiled in response.

"Wayne Enterprises," He stated factually (much like he always sounded), "revealed itself as morally corrupt. Here, despite the primitive facilities, casual violence, fascistic meathead culture—"

"—Lucius—"

"—I love it here."

"So, in essence, you're Ed's replacement." Sylvia pointed out, looking at him.

"Right, I see how awkward this might be for you."

"Not awkward at all." She reassured.

"Well, I know how he's your friend and all…"

"He tried to poison you and Bruce Wayne. And he framed my dear brother for a crime that _I_ committed."

"Careful, Little Sister," Harvey whispered. "You're still in a police station."

"And, yet," Fox said lightly, "Mr. Nygma _did_ save us all by letting us into Strange's basement."

"Point taken. Still: your position here seems well-deserved, as is Ed's current predicament."

"He's quite a complicated man, isn't he?"

"Ed? Oh yes, quite."

"You seem like a complicated person yourself."

"Oh, _yes_ , I am." Sylvia agreed, flattered. "I can't take all the credit though; it's a Gordon trait."

"I must agree with you."

"Why, thank you, Mr. Fox."

"By all means, you're very welcome. And how have _you_ been?"

"Just peachy," Sylvia said, smiling genuinely at him. "And you?"

"Well, Harvey just summarized the past six months for me, actually." Fox said generously, gesticulating to the detective, who, alongside Jim, watched Fox and Sylvia converse with odd but satisfied expressions on their faces.

"Anyway," Fox continued, smiling at the lot of them. "That drug is _only_ sold at three pharmacies in the city, and the other two pharmacies were both robbed in the last month. The question is: Why are Indian Hill escapees robbing pharmacies now?"

"Good question," Harvey humored. He turned to Jim: "So, what do you say just like the old days, you and me run it together, huh, partner?"

Jim considered it for a moment before he said finally, "You get a hard lead on an escapee and the price is right, I'll bring him in. Thanks for the drink. Lucius. Vee…" He walked away.

Harvey sighed in defeat.

"How come you don't ask me to go along with your adventures?" Sylvia questioned curiously. "I know how to carry and use a gun, and it's not like I've not been roped in these police matters in the past."

"Please. The last time you and I did anything together, we were riding in the backseat of a truck with Butch Gilzean, Don Falcone, and your insane husband, dodging Fish and Maroni—something I'd like to avoid, but—"

"First things first, my husband _isn't_ crazy." Sylvia snapped. "Second: Maroni is dead; Falcone's retired, and Butch is on my side—not much else can happen."

"There's still Fish."

"Fish hasn't been seen for months."

"Still…You attract chaos."

"What can I say. It likes the way I taste." Sylvia drawled, smirking at him.

Harvey rolled his eyes, looking at Fox pointedly: "'Fascistic meathead culture'? I mean, you couldn't try to be a little more positive?"

"Oh, I _was_ being positive."

"Uh-huh."

Steadily, the clamoring below was starting to get amped. Harvey, Fox, and Sylvia exchanged knowing looks and they moved to the balcony, peering over the railing to see how Valerie Vale was rousing the Mayor and Captain Barnes.

"Why is Hugo Strange the only one that's been arrested?" Vale questioned loudly.

Mayor James answered, "The situation—"

"—And what about the rumors that Indian Hill is a Wayne Enterprises facility? And how many more of these escapees are at large? Are we talking twenty—"

"—Excuse me—"

"—Thirty—"

"—Excuse _me—_ "

"Come on, just give me a blink if I'm close," Vale insisted.

Mayor James even gesticulated with a single hand as he said, "The situation is _firmly_ in hand!"

"LIAR!"

The crowd murmured. The news reporters turned their lights and audio recorders, and cameras in the direction of the voice, while Mayor James and Captain Barnes looked onward in dread.

On the stands, Fox and Harvey groaned, glancing at Sylvia, who smirked at them knowingly. She moved to the side, heading down the stairs to arm her husband with her presence, but it was Jim who kept her from moving any further.

"Stay here. Trust me." Jim insisted quietly.

"You know how the media works more than I do, is that it?" Sylvia dared.

"Trust. Me."

There was a quiet plea in his voice. It was only for this reason that Sylvia stayed, and Jim's hand, which had been held up in front of her, keeping her still, finally dropped. Together, they stood on the stairwell.

The crowd had parted like the Red Sea. Butch Gilzean stood alongside Oswald, who approached the reporters with finesse, charisma, and confidence that Sylvia would have admittedly dropped in the lime light. After all, the media intimidated the shit out of her.

Sylvia smiled in spite of herself; apparently, her brother _did_ know her.

"My name is Oswald Cobblepot," Oswald announced to the crowd.

"We _know_ who you are, Penguin," Barnes said rudely. "What do you want!"

"What do I want?" Oswald repeated, almost as though he was surprised by the demand. "I want you to tell the truth to the people of Gotham."

He moved through the crowd, all the while, he spoke: "They would have us believe that there is no danger. But I was there that night, when the creatures broke out of Indian Hill. I saw them. And I know who's leading them."

He stood in front of Vale, who smiled. A small, faint, reporter's greedy smile who was just about to receive the best information that a young reporter would ever hope to get, and was just on the brink of breaking a new story for her _Gotham Gazette_.

"Are you saying these escapees are organized?" asked Vale.

"Hello! _That_ is what I am saying."

Mayor James heatedly declared, "There is absolutely _nothing_ to support that!"

Over Vale's head, Oswald spoke directly to Mayor James and Captain Barnes, saying, " _I_ told the police who to look for! I begged them, time and again. And they have done _nothing_. So, I am here to speak directly to the good people of Gotham." He turned to address them as such. "The enemy's name is Fish Mooney."

"Fish Mooney?" Barnes questioned skeptically. "She hasn't been spotted in over six months. She's either long gone, or she's dead."

A trace of irritation torqued his jaw before it was covered up quickly as Oswald glanced over his shoulder at Barnes as he said, "I wish I shared your simple belief."

He turned to the people: "She is a criminal. She is a murderer. And now God knows what kind of monster Hugo Strange has turned her into. I implore every citizen of Gotham, if you love your family, if you love your children, find Fish Mooney. Until then, _no one_ is safe."

Without another glance to the police, Oswald finished and he started to walk away, leaving the reporters greedily searching for more answers, to berate the Mayor and Barnes for more information, and they even shortly followed Oswald before they realized they wouldn't get any more information out of him.

Sylvia glanced at Jim pointedly, waiting for his permission so that she could move. Jim sensed her sarcastic inquiry and, with much resignation, stepped aside and allowed her to pass him on the stairway. As she came down the stairs, Oswald saw her in his peripheral and happily greeted her.

He took her hand in his, and kissed the back of it.

The reporters, apparently, found this newsworthy. They were avaricious for any type of news.

Sylvia smiled at him: "You were fantastic, Ozzie. Very charismatic."

"I'm so glad you enjoyed it."

"So _serious_ ," She lowered her voice to that of some manly timbre, jokingly.

"I _was_ serious."

She kissed his cheek, and smiled at Butch who accompanied him. She greeted him with a smile; he returned it.

As Jim waited around for Harvey—for whatever reason—he stiffened when Oswald started to pass him.

"Hello, Jim."

"Oswald."

"I'm surprised _you_ haven't found Mooney. Being a bounty hunter, and all."

Jim looked him straight in the eye and said coolly, "You haven't made it worth my while" and he strode on ahead.

Oswald looked deeply insulted by that, while Butch chortled, "Ooh, tough guy, now."

"But he makes a point." Oswald commended moodily.

Butch and Sylvia glanced at one another as Oswald started forward and they shook their heads, now abject to whatever Oswald had on his mind left for the evening.

* * *

As Delilah stepped out of her car and headed into her home after a night working at _Lean on Vee's_ , Ivy Pepper slowly stepped out of the bushes, ducking down just below the window sill of the worker's first-floor apartment. Thankful that the window to her kitchen was concealed between the building itself and a weedy fence, Ivy was happy to crouch and watch Sylvia's second-in-command talk loudly on the phone.

She didn't catch much of the one-sided conversation. Anything that was related to the business; however, she made a mental note.

Ivy's main concern was that even as this Delilah woman spoke on the phone, she was constantly moving. From the kitchen, to the living room, to the dining room—she was all over the place. At first, Ivy believed that the woman _knew_ she was being spied on…for a second, she did. Then, once she calmed her thoughts—just as Lark had told her how to do it—she realized that Delilah just paced a great deal while she was on the phone.

"Come on…come _on…_ " Ivy grumbled.

She _needed_ something to tell Lark. Anything. Even if Lark didn't expect anything the night of, how great would it be if Ivy watched her target for just a night and came back with something so useful, something so plot-worthy!

"Come on…"

"Come on, baby…" Delilah spoke, running her hands lightly over the kitchen counters like they were newly imported silk covers. "Did you find out _anything…_ What is it? That's _nothing_." An impish grinned twisted Delilah's features. "You should hear what _I_ know about our 'wonderful' boss lady."

Whoever she spoke to on the other line evidently could not wait to know because the woman spit out the news all too eagerly.

Delilah smirked: "She's pregnant."

She listened to the alternate likely spill out all kinds of enthusiasm, however wicked.

"Sylvia's such a mother hen, you know. I pretended like I was scared. 'I'm scared to go to the mean gynecologist, wah'. 'Oh, my boyfriend and I are trying to get pregnant, boo-hoo.' I couldn't _stand_ it…it paid off though."

Ivy frowned. Lark had mentioned to her that she'd grown suspicious of Delilah.

What had she said? ' _The one she replaced betrayed me, I suspect she will too_ '.

But Ivy didn't want to tell Lark what her client already knew. She wanted to give her more than just what she needed to hear. Ivy shifted her weight that lied heavily on her toes; she had to nearly go full ballerina stance just to see over the window sill; and she quickly glanced left and right to make sure no one was watching her.

"Are you really certain you want to go through with this?" Delilah asked uncertainly, drawing Ivy's attention. "I mean, I want it just as much as you do, but…look at everything she's done for me, for _you_ , even."

Whatever the other person said on the other line obviously made Delilah unhappy. She frowned. As the woman was dishing out some coffee grounds into the maker, a few spilled over when she passionately placed the bag of coffee onto the counter.

"You and I have both worked hard to get where we are, that's not a lie." Delilah said harshly. "I've taken more crap from these people than I can possibly take for the rest of my life, but there's a line, you know. I'm not _happy_ that we have to do this. Having a baby should be a great thing, you know? It should be Liv's moment. And she deserves it! And she has done so much for me."

There was a pause as Delilah's angry face became one of guilt, as she responded to the caller: "She likes for me to call her that…whether she is or isn't, she's _like_ a friend."

Ivy shifted in her position, her feet starting to fall asleep from crouching too much. When she did, the window sill made a creak. Delilah's eyes shot in her direction. Ivy hadn't been fast enough to duck down just in time. Instead, she heard the woman's heels storming out of the apartment, boots to the ground.

" _Shit_!" Ivy squeaked.

She started running. Delilah ran after her.

She ran faster.

Delilah quickened her pace.

It wasn't until Ivy was halfway down to the Flea when her side started hurting. By then, Delilah had gotten in her car, the ignition roaring to life.

A few more minutes too late and Ivy might have been run over!

The wheels screeched the pavement.

Then there were gun shots. Loud like thunder.

Ivy's heart beat quickly as she ducked into the alley.

Delilah searched the area. Her features shifted to an expression to that of defeat and reluctance. To preserve her right to rule, she'd have to gun down a little girl. As she approached the alley, she had already made up her mind, knowing what she would have to do. With her gun drawn, she edged towards The Flea, side-stepping the front door.

Then to the alley.

She found Ivy, all right: She stood behind a woman whose crimson hair was just as red as her face as Delilah came face to face with her boss.

Seeing her, Delilah dropped her gun.

"Liv—" She began.

Sylvia's arm was wrapped around Ivy's shoulder; the latter was still breathing so hard, not just from running but from fear. She didn't spare a moment's mercy; instead, she aimed her own gun at Delilah, shot her right between the eyes, and watched her body fall over, lifeless.

Ivy yelped, pushing her face into Sylvia's hip.

"Come with me, my girl." Sylvia cooed, rubbing her shoulder. "It's okay. You did what I asked of you, and you did _beautifully_. Come along, now."

People from The Flea scurried out to see who'd died tonight. Seeing Sylvia, some of them backed down immediately.

"She's yours." She said apathetically, waving to the dead woman. "Take what you want."

Ivy watched as the lot suddenly swarmed around Delilah, like vultures around road kill. She walked with Sylvia to the end of the road.

"I want to give you something, dearest."

"What?" Ivy asked. "I-I told you what she did, what she said. You said I did okay, you said I was—"

"I'm not going to kill you."

"Oh…okay, then what…?"

Sylvia held out a necklace to her. Ivy took it curiously, looking it over with little interest until she saw the pendant. It appeared to be a single rose (no stem) trapped inside ceramic filling.

"Why would you give me this?" asked Ivy, holding the necklace out to her. "It's dying."

"It's made of paper, I swear. I would have given you a real one, but I know how you feel about your vegetative friends. And I know you like plants, so I thought I'd give it to you."

"Is it a tracker?"

"Nothing like that."

"Is it a bomb?"

"Of _course_ not." Sylvia said, looking at her, taken aback. "My god, child, what do you think I am, a monster?"

"That's what people say about you." Ivy reminded practically. "And you _did_ just…" She glanced back where a few scavengers like her were picking everything from Delilah's corpse, from her jewelry, to her wallet, even to her boots.

"I'm many things, but if it's any consolation, I don't kill kids."

Ivy smiled and she put the necklace around her neck, touching the pendant and peered up at her: "Are you _really_ pregnant?"

Sylvia hesitated with good reason before she whispered, "I am."

"Can I touch?"

"You won't feel much of anything. I'm not far along."

"Still…?"

"Sure."

Ivy touched Sylvia's belly, and smiled up at her: "We should bet on whether it'll be a boy or a girl."

"Ms. Pepper!"

"Call me 'Ivy'." She said, grinning. "And I think it'd be a fun game. If I win, you buy me a hamburger."

"And if I win?"

"I get to watch you buy me a hamburger."

"That's not much of a bet, Ivy."

"It is for _me_. Win-Win."

"That's not…sure, fine. A bet's a bet." Sylvia said, holding out her hand.

"Boy or girl?"

"Does it matter?"

Ivy shook her hand and said, " _Now_ you're getting it."

Sylvia rolled her eyes.

"Stay somewhere. Not here, though."

She handed the little girl a little velvet bag. Ivy took a look inside, and she grinned gratefully.

"When will I see you again?"

"If I need you to spy on someone else, probably. You did well, Love."

Ivy grinned proudly at herself and then ran off to find the closest hotel so she could sleep in a comfy bed. Sylvia watched after her until she couldn't see her anymore.

* * *

Sylvia came back to the mansion that night, dragging her feet. She climbed into bed, still wearing her day clothes.

Oswald was somewhat asleep. When there was a substantial shift of weight in the bed, he stirred, mumbling something she couldn't understand, and turned on his side, looking at her tiredly. Now, she sat on the edge of the mattress, taking off her shoes.

"You're back." He mumbled.

With an attempt of humor, she responded, "I've returned, yes."

"Good. Get under the covers with me."

Sylvia slipped out of her clothes, pulled on her night slip, and joined Oswald in bed. When he felt her body next to him, Oswald, still with his eyes closed, cuddled up to her.

She lied on her back; he, on his side, snuggled close.

"I killed Delilah tonight."

"Am I to guess that your suspicions were correct, then?"

"Betrayal," She confirmed stoically. "Just like Brittany. I'm beginning to think that position is tabooed."

"We really have to start doing background checks on our staff," Oswald exhaled sleepily.

"I know. I keep having to buy new ammunition; it's really starting to burn a hole in my wallet."

Oswald chuckled quietly, opening his eyes so he looked at her: "That's not _exactly_ what I meant, but that's a fair point, too."

"I know what you meant, sweetheart. It was a half-baked attempt at humor."

She almost resisted him when he touched the side of her face, so her mouth moved closer to his. When he moved the rest of the way for a kiss, she slowly relaxed into it, smiling even, returning it.

"I expected it, I think." Sylvia said quietly. "On some level, I wouldn't have thought it would be Delilah. She was smarter, more outgoing. She was the last person who I thought would betray me."

"Finding a protege is a challenging task."

"Finding one shouldn't be _this_ difficult."

"It comes with time, Pet."

Sylvia murmured sadly, "It shouldn't be this painful either."

Oswald heard the slightest emotional hitch in her voice and he looked at her plainly to see that she was mulling the betrayal over in her head. He cleared his throat, and sat up. She mirrored him, doing the same.

"Pigeon, you and I—and perhaps, others too—know how attached you are with the staff. It's a trait that I think is not only unique, but I believe it's also one of your greatest weaknesses."

"You'd prefer that I keep everything professional? No informality, what so ever? You know I don't operate that way. It _can't_ be all business."

"It's _not_ always business."

"The clubs, the meetings, the bargains, negotiations, even speeches— _all_ of it is business," Sylvia said tiredly. "I've told you before, I'm _not_ that type of person. That's why I joke, and I cut up with people—staff, enemy, friend, who _cares_. I didn't grow up…like that."

"I know. It's what I love most about you."

"Oh, so is that it, hm? I have the chip on my shoulder, and you're the business-like architect."

"It's not uncommon knowledge between us, Pigeon. I'm a builder, you're a destroyer. We've known that from the word 'go'. Personally, I think we complement each other."

"Right. You: a wine-and-dine, five-star, Bed and Breakfast hotel. Me: casual as a diner. It appears that way, doesn't it?" Sylvia said, smiling contentedly.

"A diner, perhaps, but with a lot more sophistication than any of which I have ever visited."

Oswald kissed her forehead and Sylvia beamed.

"I'd recommend managing your club solo for the moment," He suggested. "If Delilah did as she had planned, I wouldn't know how—"

She sensed his worry.

"It didn't happen." She consoled, smiling at him lovingly. "She's dead. I'm not. I think that's a good sign, right?"

Hearing her words, Oswald put the terrible image of a dead Sylvia out of his mind and basked in the present.

"Obviously true, but now you've yet another worrisome factor to consider." He advised.

"And that is?"

"Your spy said she was talking on the phone."

"Mm-hmm."

"This is a person with whom she felt comfortable discussing plans to betray you."

Sylvia frowned, and her eyes flickered from Oswald to the covers as she took a few handfuls and muttered, "Ooh, you're right…I hadn't considered that before. There's someone else, then."

"It would seem so."

She turned completely to him; the motion alone made Oswald look at her unexpectedly. She took his hand in her trembling one, and said uncertainly, "Tell me. How do I find that out?"

"If you allowed Delilah to live, you might have found out from _her_."

"She chased my spy _through_ four different alleys," Sylvia said defensively. "Delilah threatened to kill her, after everything she's done for me so far. I wasn't about to let that happen!"

"I can understand that, Pigeon, but the fact is: you let your emotions get the best of you."

"Oh, this coming from someone who's _driven_ by their own emotions." She pointed out, crossing her arms.

Oswald rolled his eyes, unable to keep himself from doing it. Not because she hadn't a point, but because he _knew_ she was right. A little hypocrisy in the night to ripple the waters of an oncoming storm, and yet, he was surprised to see that despite it, Sylvia appeared calmer. She looked at him with doleful eyes, of innocence that he'd not seen for years.

"With her dead, I can't find out who she was conspiring with, can I?"

"You can, but it'll be much more difficult."

Sylvia cocked her head to the side, saying, "Oz, how do you know how to do _any_ of this? This conspiracy, these wars…this _constant_ paranoia—it's driving me mad. I'm up to my ears in stress, and that's before the baby. I don't even know how to…"

Oswald took her hands in his and she startled at the romantic gesture; granted, he was always the romantic, but the sudden motion disarmed her.

"Worry about this…" Oswald said, moving her hands to her own stomach. "You let _me_ worry about everything else."

"Honey…"

"Trust me. Everything will be fine."

"You're saying that so I'm not fretting needlessly, right? You're not saying that just so you can go back to sleep, are you?" Sylvia asked with a little smile.

Oswald quirked a little smile of his own as he admitted, "Half-and-half, really."

He lied on his back. She did the same, then she turned on her side. Lying down as such, she patted the area of the bed that was in front of her.

"Come be my little spoon, Ozzie." Sylvia said; her voice was now calmer, and warm.

Oswald didn't need much coaxing. It was his favorite sleeping position, after all.

Author's Note: Phew! This is the longest chapter I've ever written, but it is probably one of my most favorite. Feel free to leave a comment if you like or didn't like. I like to know what the readers think:) Enjoy the next few chapters as I've been dishing them out!


	15. Change

Chapter Fifteen: Change

* * *

Standing in front of the body-length mirror was Sylvia, who peered at her reflection with something of a 'meh' expression. She'd gone through three different outfits, trying to match it with her mood, but none seemed to strike her fancy. Frustrated, she pulled the straps and neckline of her dress over her head and threw it on the bed, frowning as she turned to the side, glancing at her mid-section in the mirror.

She cupped her hands over her belly button.

"Fucking bloated…" She murmured.

Then she poked her breasts through the padding.

She and Oswald were elated to know that they'd be having a baby—be it a son or daughter—and yet, with this, came some unbridled resentment that she hadn't anticipated when the inevitable began.

Her body was changing.

Her breasts were sometimes sore; her mid-section felt like it was a balloon almost always ready to pop. Thank _god_ the famous (or rather, _in_ famous) morning sickness hadn't started; and she hoped it never would.

Sylvia had bought all the baby books she could find, organizing them from month-to-month and the trimester with which it was correlated just to keep up with this anarchy happening within. And yet, it did nothing, really.

She woke up with a headache all the time, and it would take almost an hour before she felt like doing anything. Fatigue was a symptom, the books informed her. _Fatigue_ , indeed.

 _Knock, knock_.

The sound made her jump.

"What!" She called.

"It's me."

Sylvia smiled faintly when she heard Oswald's voice; its owner entered, slowly opening the door to see that she was neither dressed nor ready to go. Not even at the time they'd agreed upon. Seeing this was so, Oswald looked at her, slightly annoyed.

"You've been in here for three hours. What have you been doing?"

"Drowning in a sea of self-loathing," She answered sarcastically. "What have _you_ been doing?"

He started to make a smart comeback, but he recognized that tone anywhere. Seeing how she was staring at herself in the mirror, her hands on her belly as she measured her lack of baby bump, and yet…that dissatisfied look was more informative than if Sylvia had said anything, but for whatever reason the suppressed smile tugged on the corner on the corner of his mouth.

"My Pigeon is displeased. What's wrong?"

"The same thing that was wrong three days ago, the other day, yesterday, this morning, and _still_ is." She responded unsteadily. "Look at me! Do I look fat to you?"

Oswald stared at her as though he couldn't believe what he'd heard. After the shock had passed (only a second later), he cleared his throat uncomfortably. He put his cane on the bed, and from the comforter, he chose a dress that Sylvia had discarded the moment she had pulled it out of the closet.

Cocktail dress, a deep shade of violet, strapless.

"Well?" She prompted, looking at his reflection through the mirror. "Don't I?"

"You _don't_ look fat, Pigeon."

"That was a _lot_ of hesitation for a simple 'yes' or 'no' answer."

"I simply needed the time to contemplate the absurdity of your question. Personally, I think you look beautiful. Always have, always will."

"So you're saying that I'm beautiful, but I _also_ look fat?"

"Are these the 'mood swings' the authors were writing about?" He questioned as he handed the dress to her.

"My mood has nothing to do with the question."

"On a contrary, Pet. I think your question is starting to reflect your mood quite a bit."

"Do you really want to argue right now?"

"Trust me. The last thing I want to do is argue with you."

Sylvia looked at him pointedly, and he smiled at her encouragingly.

"Put this on." He indicated the dress.

"This color?" Sylvia's eyebrows raised inquisitively, glancing at the violet dress.

"I like you in this color."

"You like me in anything."

Oswald smiled tenderly, knowing she was correct: "Also, we still have to go by The Sirens."

"Yeah, so Barbara and Tabitha can mock me behind my back? How _wonderful_. Looking forward to it."

"I'm sensing a hostile edge to your tone."

"The hostility isn't meant for you." Sylvia muttered as she grumpily pulled the dress over her head and wiggled her hips as the material glided over them with mild resistance. "I'm just not feeling my best…"

Oswald smiled as he watched her straighten out the dress. It conformed to her figure all too perfectly. So perfect…he felt his body pining for her. For the moment, however, there was a call for a little self-control.

"I'm not even sure if I want to go," Sylvia mumbled.

"Don't you want to see how Barbara Kean spent your money?" He asked knowingly.

She glanced at him, almost guiltily.

With a subtle chuckle, Oswald wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her into him. The chaste tug made her the bareness of her back rub against his suit, sending a small pleasurable tingle down her spine.

"She was released from Arkham and had little to nothing to her name…suddenly, almost _miraculously_ , dare I say, she has the acquisition to purchase land, and build a brand-new place from the ground up. And you didn't think I would find out the name of her generous benefactor?" Oswald said slyly.

Sylvia wriggled in his arms, but she grinned in spite of herself when he bestowed a soft kiss along her jaw line, to her ear.

"And here I was certain you thought so much more of me." He teased.

"Oh, but I _do—_ "

"I think you're losing your touch."

She turned in his arms, and hers snaked around his neck.

"I have a lot more cards hiding up my sleeves than you could possibly know, Penguin," Sylvia reassured with a cool tone. "Eventually, it works to my favor. Much like your little schemes seem to work for _you_."

"Most of my 'schemes' are harmless."

"Oh, yeah, like causing a war between Maroni and Falcone. So harmless."

"If you recall, it worked in _my_ favor."

"Mm-hmm, so you're worried that Barbara won't help me in the future?"

"Your generosity is unmatched, compared to the Waynes, Pigeon. Most people would see it as a charitable feat, even gracious." He said softly. "With people like Barbara…I'd be wary if I were you."

Sylvia kissed his nose, and said playfully, "Wary, I'll be, then. Just for you."

"Well, I'm glad we have that out of the way."

"Mm-hmm."

Oswald said with a smile, "Are you ready to go?"

"Let me get my shoes."

"I'll meet you downstairs."

"Fine, then." Sylvia said and she broke the link in her arms from his neck and moved to the closet to find her flats.

Oswald watched her aimlessly, a thoughtful look on his face, a small sly little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as she bent down at the waist, and pulled the shoes from inside the wardrobe. She nearly stumbled as she clumsily put one foot inside a ballerina flat.

She felt eyes on her. Sylvia looked at him curiously.

"What?"

He said innocently, "Nothing."

Sylvia grinned and it was her turn to blush.


	16. The Sirens

Chapter Sixteen: The Sirens

* * *

They were on their way to _Th_ _e Sirens_. Sylvia sat in the driver's seat, comfortably taking the wheel, shifting the stick often as the traffic either came to a standstill, or passably continued with little interruption; there was no in-between.

In the passenger seat was Oswald, who surveyed the traffic with minimal fuss. Meanwhile Sylvia's hand that wasn't on the steering wheel occasionally held the gear shift, passively switching from one to the other depending on the irregular flow of traffic, Oswald inwardly smiled when that hand slowly rubbed along his thigh. Affectionate as ever.

Meanwhile, Butch took full privilege taking up the back seat. His pant legs were crossed at the ankle; the other part of him was leaning up against the other door while he read the newspaper, sometimes commenting on the section he was perusing.

"Stocks are rising." He noted aloud, thumbing the corner of the page with subtle interest. "Looks like it's going to be a good year this year."

"Looks that way," Sylvia said coolly. She muttered under her breath, "Until the 1% cash in their stocks and the market plummets again."

Oswald side-glanced her, hearing her comment, but he didn't bother to add to it. After all, wasn't she right?

"Weather's looking kind of drafty. High fifties on the weekend: time to take a walk in the park. Better bring an umbrella though; it's going to be a _rainy_ weekend."

"Butch," Oswald said patiently.

"Yeah, Boss?"

"Do you have side job as a meteorologist that I'm currently not aware of?"

"Can't say I do."

"Then your comments about the weather are likely wasted on me."

He glanced over his shoulder at Butch, who smiled apologetically.

Sylvia shrugged, saying, "If it hails, let me know, though."

"Will do!" Butch chirped from behind her seat.

"Don't encourage him." Oswald muttered.

" _Now,_ who's in a mood," Sylvia teased, smirking at him.

He didn't acknowledge her fair-weather taunt with a comment of his own, knowing that if he wasn't careful, he could find himself dealing with a side of Sylvia that he neither had the patience nor the temper to handle.

Sylvia parallel parked neatly against the curb, grinning widely as she stepped out of the car, noticing her fine lines.

"Victor Zsasz would be proud," She sighed serenely. She looked at Butch, adding, "The last time I tried parallel parking, he was in the car with me; I had to hot wire every car on the block so I could move them—I didn't want to accidentally ram into any of their license plates."

"And what happened to the cars?"

Sylvia rubbed her neck consciously.

"They uh…well, they rolled down a hill—how about we go inside, huh?"

Butch shook his head, easily amused, while Oswald followed her in; his hand held the cane, enabling him to walk a little easier; the other rested gently on Sylvia's lower back.

She looked around and was pleasantly surprised with what she saw.

Music was pretty good; decorations were out of sight, and the patrons were flowing like beer at an Irish Stag party. An oval-like bar was constructed in the center where two lively, beautiful barmaids were serving customers drinks. Chandeliers, sun-like orbs glittered from the ceiling. A band of women were absorbed in the white of the spot lights.

"Wow…this is pretty nice." Sylvia muttered.

"That was my thought too," Butch agreed.

"I meant to tell you: I'm sorry about throwing you into the wall the other day."

"It's fine."

"Did I scare you, by chance?"

"Honestly, Liv…you scare me _all_ the time. Just more times than others." He confessed nervously. He side-stepped her, patting her arm, before he continued to stroll forward with Oswald, completely moving into the club, looking around.

Sylvia minded the other patrons for a second before joining their trio.

Barbara stood at the oval-like bar, contending with her patrons and bartenders. Seeing the three of them in her peripheral vision, she turned and greeted them jovially: "Ozzie...Butch…"

She and Oswald did the Euro-Kiss thing. Barbara greeted Butch with a Cheshire grin while she looked at Sylvia with the same grin, although more or less inclined.

"Hey, Girlfriend." Barbara said, winking at her.

"Hi, Babs."

"What a nice surprise," She said encouragingly.

"Forgive me for not coming sooner," Oswald returned, smiling. "The place looks _marvelous_. Wouldn't you say so, Butch?"

The latter said, almost nervously, "Yeah, the place looks great."

And like a snap, Barbara said serenely, "I imagine you're here about your offer. To let us shelter under your umbrella."

"I only want what's best for you."

"I appreciate the thought. But we're big girls. We can take care of ourselves. _Can't_ we."

Sylvia frowned and almost immediately, Oswald grabbed her wrist closest to him: it was an instant order: 'No. Violence.' And just so, Butch, Oswald, and Sylvia turned their heads to see Tabitha Galavan walking up from behind them, gliding between the two gentlemen.

"Sure, we can," She said slyly, smirking. She put an arm on Barbara's shoulder, just outlandishly proving a point that she and the lovely blonde were an item.

It had little to no effect on the married couple, but it seemed to poke Butch in a sore spot.

Sylvia glanced at Oswald, watching him. It seemed to take all of his cool and calm to keep himself from lashing out at the woman who'd not even a year ago had lain slaughter to his mother. While he seemed more inclined to maintain some type of civility, Sylvia's desire to fillet the bitch had little subtlety.

"Hey, Butch," Tabitha said softly, smiling at him.

"Hey!" He said too readily. "Hey…H-How you doin'?"

"Doing well. Taking care of yourself?"

"Yeah, yeah…so, uh…So, so how you doin'?"

Oswald scoffed, "You already asked her that."

Butch cleared his throat and with an attempt to retain some type of dignity, said encouragingly, "You guys should take him up on his offer. Gotham's full of rough characters…You look great, by the way."

Oswald declined to see this go on much further so he patted Butch's shoulder and said quietly, "Why don't you go wait over there. Please."

Defeated, Butch sighed and he moved to the bar for a drink. Sylvia watched him empathetically.

"Poor bunny," Barbara sympathized with a contrary smile. "Break-ups are hard."

"I offered to kill you," Oswald said calmly, looking at Tabitha. (Sylvia grinned widely.) "I thought it would raise his spirits. It would be my pleasure seeing as how you _murdered my mother_." And suddenly, just as the passion had risen from his voice, calm suddenly became his master, and he continued with a light chuckle, "But he is nursing some foolish hope that you two will get back together. 'Love'."

Tabitha nearly snarled, "You can take your offer and stick it up your—"

Barbara pulled Tabitha back with an insistent tug, while Oswald (an inner pride blooming) still had some type of restraint on Sylvia, although she looked just as eager to engage in warfare as the Tigress. For a second, it appeared that the two would start a cat fight, but after such a time, it seemed as though that Barbara and Oswald had found a nice lead-and-pull with both women.

"We'll think about it, Ozzie," Barbara placated.

Tabitha let out a sigh as though gaining some patience back while Sylvia still leered at her from beside her husband.

Oswald smiled, although it didn't reach his eyes, as he said, "Fine. But that's not the only reason I am here. Spread the word. I want Fish Mooney. And I will give a million dollars to whoever can bring her to me. Dead…or alive…" He looked directly at Tabitha, spoken to her as a subtle threat. "Chopped into pieces. Either way: I want her."

Barbara nodded and said kindly, "I'll let my people know."

Oswald looked at Sylvia, who gave him a tender kiss before he moved forward to speak with Butch. She glanced after him before turning to Barbara and Tabitha.

"I like what you did with the place." She said tenderly, looking at the ceiling. "Chandeliers." She smiled at Barbara: "Nice touch."

"I'm so glad you approve," Tabitha scoffed.

Barbara glared at her: "Be _nice_ , Tabby. Liv did a great thing for us, you know."

"Yeah, be _nice_." Sylvia taunted, sneering at her. "I shouldn't have made Barbara ask for my help. I should've had _you_ do it."

"That's not asking a lot."

"I didn't ask for enough."

"Liv…" Barbara warned.

Sylvia smirked at her.

"Really, though. Beautiful place. Pretty lights, good music…I'm not too enthusiastic about the people you have on your stage, but I'm a little biased, you know."

"Yeah, I suppose if you're not busy, you could always come and sing for a night here."

Tabitha looked absolutely appalled by the idea, but Barbara didn't give her in any acknowledgement.

If just to make Tabitha more inclined to stab someone, Sylvia languidly caressed Barbara's face and then, with little regard to who was watching, pressed her lips against hers and kissed her deeply. Sylvia felt Barbara's tongue rub against hers, and that was all she needed. Just as quickly as the kiss had started, it ended. The result: Tabitha glared between Barbara and Sylvia; treason written all over her face.

Barbara smiled at Sylvia.

"I didn't think you had it in you."

Sylvia winked.

She turned to Tabitha: "Do you feel that, Tabs, huh? That feeling of betrayal? Keep that feeling, store it for another day. Because one day, you'll get what's coming to you in a way you will not even _begin_ to comprehend until it's looking you right in the fucking face."

She blew a kiss to Barbara, then spontaneously left the club with Butch and Oswald watching her, more or less surprised.

Sylvia sat in the driver's seat, plugging the key into the ignition. When Oswald closed the door, sitting in the passenger side, he looked at her expectantly.

"Would you mind telling me what _that_ was about?" He demanded calmly, although he seemed like he was holding back one massive temper tantrum.

"I just wanted to see Tabitha look as distraught as she's made Butch feel," Sylvia explained smoothly. Butch smiled appreciatively at her from the backseat. "If I can't punch her, maim or kill her, I'll do what I can to make her miserable. Besides, don't act like you weren't just a _little_ intrigued when you saw me kissing Barbara."

Butch leaned forward and uttered, "I know _I_ was intrigued."

"Shut up, Butch." Oswald snapped, although his voice was insistently low.

However, Sylvia _had_ made a point. He felt angry, seeing her kiss _anyone_ else, but was he not just the slightest intrigued? Oswald did see how furious Tabitha looked, and that was even more thrilling than what he'd hoped to get from just visiting _The Sirens_.

By the time they were back at the mansion, his reasons for being angry with Sylvia were pretty much nil.


	17. Calm My Storm

Chapter Seventeen: Calm My Storm

* * *

"I talked to Cat the other day." Ivy mumbled, looking up from her hamburger to peer at Sylvia, who was sipping on a cup of tea.

For the moment, they were settled at the same hamburger joint that they had been to the last time, sitting across from each other in a booth.

It wasn't so early in the morning to be called 'dawn', but between getting pancakes or a grilled patty, the child chose the latter and so while Ivy was having a Quarter pounder with cheese, fries, coleslaw, and a milkshake, Sylvia had opted out in favor for tea; her stomach was queasy.

"Did you, now." Sylvia shook a few packets of sugar into her cup.

"Yeah…"

"How'd that go?"

"Well, she asked where I was."

"Does she normally have a habit of asking where you've been?"

"Not really, but she came to the Flea the other night and I wasn't there."

"Was she worried?" She asked sincerely.

"I think so."

"What'd you tell her?"

"'I went for a walk'." Ivy replied, quirking a small smile which disappeared almost immediately. "She knows something, but I don't know _what_ she knows."

"And you won't ask her what she knows?"

"Because I know _she_ 's doing something too."

"Like what?"

Ivy scoffed, "'Top Secret', she says. I don't know why she won't tell me."

"Maybe she's looking after your best interests."

"Or maybe she doesn't want to share." She pouted, throwing a French fry into the pool of ketchup that was starting to drown the rest of the potato pioneers.

Sylvia cocked her head to the side.

"Do you envy her?"

"What?"

"That she gets caught up in something every week. She finds gigs all the time, it seems. Doesn't invite you to any of them. Does that make you feel a certain way?"

"She gives me money," Ivy said pathetically. "She lets me follow her around, you know. It gives me something to do, stops me from being bored."

"I feel like you'd benefit from having a garden." Sylvia noted lazily, sitting back in her seat.

The queasiness of her stomach made a low rumble, and it gave way to a wave of nausea which made her exhale slowly.

Ivy noticed: "Are you okay, Lark?"

"I'm great."

"Lark…"

"Yeah?"

"How come you talk to me?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's not news. _You_ know. The cops killed my dad; my mom died right after."

"You're right. It's not news. Everyone knows that by now."

"Your _brother_ killed my dad, you know." Ivy said coolly. A soft glare lifted from her plate to Sylvia. "You're not scared that I might wanna do something about that?"

Sylvia looked at her. For a moment—if only just for half of a second—she wondered whether Ivy was threatening her. Subtle, perhaps…but even then.

" _Would_ you want to do something about it?" Sylvia challenged softly.

"Maybe. If the opportunity came."

Sylvia clicked her tongue thoughtfully before she straightened in her seat. She reached into the pocket of her blue denim jeans and held out a metal piece on the table. After pressing a button, a blade shot out from its nest; Ivy jumped from the sudden motion.

"Here's your chance. Your 'opportunity'." Sylvia offered, placing it in front of her. She rolled her sleeves up to her elbows, resting her forearms on the table, her wrists out in the open. "If you want your pound of flesh, Ms. Pepper. Take it."

Ivy grimaced.

"Lark…I—"

"Open an artery," She encouraged. "Go on…"

Ivy licked her lips, the bottom one quivered. Slowly, she put down her hamburger, wiped her hands clean of the grease and patty oil, and even with slower grace, took the knife in her hand. Her eyes stared down at the freckled, porcelain-white complexion that covered Sylvia's arms. What determination might have flickered suddenly left when Ivy spotted the light, white, slightly raised lines that had already scarred her radials.

Sylvia smiled instantly when Ivy sat back down, her back lined against the seat. Reluctantly, Ivy placed the knife down on the table, pushing it towards her.

"You wanted to, didn't you?"

"How come…? Why did you ask if…?" Ivy mumbled, unable to formulate her words properly. "If you knew…"

Sensing what she was wanting to know, Sylvia unrolled her sleeves back to their original resting place, sheathed the blade back in its nest, and then pocketed the switchblade inside her jeans with little pause.

"It's not really anything against you. Nothing you could have done would have justified anything what the police—or the world—has done to you. There's nothing you could have done that I've not already done myself, or someone else has done. The only justification you'd have gotten from hurting me would have been short-lived. If you want _real_ satisfaction, you have to go towards the source."

"So, you're saying," Ivy muttered, "I'd have to actually—"

"Go after the man that killed your father, yes. And since you brought it up, _my_ brother didn't shoot Mario. His _partner_ did. Regardless, the men responsible for your father's death aren't even the people who shot him. His right to live was revoked the moment Falcone, and the rest of them, decided to frame your father. It wasn't until after they did the job that the police went after them."

Ivy said unhappily, "How come you're telling me this _now_."

"Closure isn't always satisfying, is it? But at least, now, you get to sleep, knowing just _exactly_ who the person was that ruined your family."

"How do I go after Falcone?"

"You don't." Sylvia said finally, after taking a sip from her tea. "Falcone retired a long time ago. In your position, there's nothing much else you can do except to move forward: Look for opportunities, be kind to your friends…"

"My friends are mostly plants."

"Well, I'm sure if you are good to them, they will be kind to you, huh."

Ivy nodded. Somehow, that was the most comforting thing she'd ever heard. After a moment, she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

"Do people know that I was involved with her death?"

Sylvia raised her eyebrows: "Who—Delilah?"

"Yeah."

"No one knows so naturally, _everyone_ knows. I killed her. You weren't involved, and nowhere near the crime when it happened." She said lazily. "The body was gone by daylight. Delilah was forgettable. It's really not that hard to make anyone disappear in Gotham."

"Could you make yourself disappear?"

"Is that your way of telling me to leave?"

Ivy giggled, "No!"

Sylvia smirked.

"Where Cat is concerned," She continued while Ivy's laugh sobered. "If she tells you to stay away, then I'd say that's probably a safe bet that you need to stay away. She seems to be looking out for you, even if she does keep a few secrets for herself."

Ivy nodded, taking her advice into account.

Sylvia patted her hand: "If you'll excuse me, I have to run. I have an appointment."

"Going to the baby doctor?"

"Yes, I am. They're checking on my progress."

"When do you find out if it's a boy or girl?"

"Some twenty weeks, so it'll be some time."

"You'll tell me, right?"

Sylvia nodded, saying, " _Yes,_ I'll tell you."

* * *

The visit to the baby doctor was uneventful, which was probably the best outcome one could hope for. Waiting for the check-in, waiting to be called, waiting for the doctor to come in, waiting for the 'you're doing well' comment, and then waiting for the next appointment to be scheduled. What came out of it was the gynecologist suggesting that Sylvia take some prenatal vitamins, get a jump start on that pre-baby care, and that was basically it.

Sylvia sat in the driver's seat; Oswald sat beside her.

"Well, _that_ was fun." Sylvia sighed tiredly as she started the car, and they were heading back to the mansion.

"It's not an amusement park ride, Pigeon."

"I didn't expect it to be like a fucking _roller coaster_ but at least give me a Ferris Wheel view," Sylvia said snidely, glaring at the sudden halt of traffic around them. She honked the horn, poked her head out of the window, and shouted, "Can you go any slower, jackass!"

Sylvia rolled up her window, seething.

Oswald noticed.

"Are you sure you don't want me to drive?" He asked carefully.

"I'm _sure_. I'm just irritated because these _assholes_ don't have a fucking clue when the light is green! TODAY, fuckers! Go!" Sylvia screamed, and she slammed her hand on the blaring horn once again.

"Will you calm down for a _second_?"

"Well, I can't help it! These people don't know how to fucking _drive_! I'm about to just ram my foot up their asses. DRIVE, ASSHOLES!"

When the traffic started moving, she said wryly, "Oh look, see—they actually listened!"

About two miles from the mansion, Oswald's nerves were strung so tightly from his wife's screaming, he wondered if he'd be pardoned for losing his temper. She was just so moody today—the easy-going trip to the doctor hadn't lifted her spirits at all.

The moment the car was parked, he crawled out of the passenger seat, and opened the door for her. Sylvia took his hand and she got out of the car, looking at him grumpily.

"Pigeon."

" _What_."

"Nothing." Oswald retracted; he'd rather not slap the bull on the back just yet, fearing he'd get the horns anytime soon.

Sylvia stormed inside the mansion, letting everyone know that she was pissed off. After the bedroom door slammed shut, Gabe and Butch glanced at Oswald inquisitively.

His only explanation came out simply: "Mood swings."

A few hours later, Sylvia hadn't come out of the bedroom. That was a little worrisome.

Oswald gently tapped his knuckles on the door, waiting for any sort of acknowledgement (be it furious or otherwise), but none came. When he entered silently, he noticed that she was in bed, lying on her back, eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. She glanced down, seeing him.

"Are you feeling better?" Oswald asked.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"I don't. I'm not angry, if that's what you're asking."

Oswald sighed, not bothering to enunciate that this _was_ his primary concern. He took off his gloves and dress jacket, leaving his waist coat on, but he loosened his tie. After he took off his shoes, he scooted into the bed, his back against the headboard. Sylvia glanced at him suspiciously, but didn't inquire as to what he was doing.

"Pigeon."

"What."

"Sit up."

"Just let me lie here, okay?"

"Sit up, please."

Sylvia grumbled, "Okay, _fine_. I don't know why you…" The rest of her words were lost to him as she said them under her breath.

As she did as he asked, Oswald gently held her arms and just as tenderly pulled her back to him. She tried to wriggle away from his touch, but he wasn't letting her go just yet. Resigned to see what he was up to, Sylvia allowed him to adjust where he needed.

He moved his legs so she lied between them; her head rested on his chest, her shoulders on his stomach. He released her arms, smiling when they flopped down on the bed like fish. She was looking up at the ceiling, an odd but comical expression on her face.

She giggled, "Oswald, _what_ are you doing?"

And then his intentions became clear.

He started massaging her shoulders, the tight muscles along her neck and collar bone. Oswald smiled to himself when he heard her stifled, contented sigh. For a moment, they stayed like this.

Sylvia looked up at him, an apology written all over her face.

"I guess I _was_ a little angry. I'm sorry I snapped at you." She said remorsefully. "The visit to the doctor was probably better than we could have hoped."

He murmured a soft 'mmm' in acknowledgement but said nothing else.

Oswald gingerly wrapped his hands around her throat, his thumbs inclined and rubbing concentric circles just above her tensed jaw, beneath her ears.

"Will you say something?" Sylvia asked.

"What do you _want_ me to say?"

"Anything."

"'Anything'." He repeated.

"Smart ass." Sylvia giggled, smiling.

She sat up, then turned to face him, crawling between his knees, and sitting on her own feet.

"Look at me."

"I am looking at you."

"No. I mean _really_ look at me," Sylvia urged. "What do you see?"

For a moment, she looked worried. As though his answer would either send her to heavenly song or deep into the pit of depression.

His hand caressed her face, brushing a lock of ginger hair behind her ear. He said truthfully, "I see you."

"And I, you." Sylvia said sweetly, her anxiety breaking apart and her facial features, relaxed. "I have something of a favor—if you call it that."

"Sylvia, you're my wife. We don't do favors for each other."

"Then just do something for me, okay?"

"What is it?"

"The next time I'm angry like that, kiss me."

"I believe that would be a death sentence for me." Oswald said calmly.

"Please, just do it."

"Pigeon—"

"Everyone else pisses me off," Sylvia persuaded, gesturing behind her with a tinge of irritation. "If they tell me to calm down, I want to pop their head off their shoulders like a fucking dandelion. When _you_ talk to me—it's just different. I might pop off at you, but I don't feel so angry…it's like you have the key to my mind, a way of getting in that no other person has privy to."

"Sylvia, you have strength that of which I still find unbelievable, and I've known no other person to possess your feat for negotiation."

"So, I'm strong. So, I'm good at what I do…I'm not strong in everything, and my temper—as you know—is still needing work… These mood swings coming out of nowhere…I don't know how to navigate through them. I was so angry, and I don't even know why I was angry. I can't do this on my own…You weather my temper; you calm my storm. No matter how strong I am or weaponized I become, I _still_ need that."

Her voice was almost pleading. Her eyes reflected the same emotion.

"I can't deny you much of anything anymore, can I?" Oswald resigned, although he smiled a little.

"You _could_. You just don't." She said mischievously. "Kiss me."

And like any other time, Oswald gave her what she wanted with little hesitation. He couldn't say 'no' to her, ever. He couldn't deny her much of anything, indeed. But neither could she deny him.


	18. Platonic

Chapter Eighteen: Platonic

* * *

It was in the middle of the afternoon. Traffic wasn't substantially horrific. However, with the waver of Sylvia's edging temper, it seemed like too long of a drive to Arkham Asylum. While the woman glared at every pedestrian walking slower than molasses over cross walks, and at the taxis which made abrupt halts in order to pick up their new fares—or anything in general—Oswald kept his hands on the little gift box, which rested humbly on his lap.

Sylvia had been quite taken to be his chauffeur on many more than one occasion. While she shifted restlessly in her seat, Oswald glanced out the window, uncertain as to whether he'd wanted her to come along or not. As crazy as Gotham had become (and with Fish Mooney out and about), he had been on the fence about her company…still, it had been _she_ who had insisted. She was his unofficial body guard; with the magnitude of her physical strength and the unholy temper that wavered as her hormones grew, Sylvia was an unstoppable force…period. So, he naturally allowed her to do what she wanted.

But this trip wasn't like any others they'd taken together.

It was not their first visit to the asylum as guests, but it _was_ the first time in which they both were visiting the same patient: Edward Nygma.

Events of the past had made things more than awkward: Oswald's knowledge of the fact that Ed had feelings for his wife, for one…as well as knowing that at one-point (and perhaps another that he imagined) Ed had also kissed Sylvia.

He had decidedly forgiven this transgression for the very reason that everyone (excluding Sylvia) was an idiot and Edward was the only competent intellectual to whom Oswald could confide his deepest worries.

Sylvia had her own hang ups where Ed was concerned: he had framed her brother for killing Galavan, a crime that she had committed—well, at least when Galavan died the first time. It wasn't until Ed had redeemed himself by picking the lock to Hugo Strange's mysterious basement of experiments (ultimately having saved her life as well as the lives of everyone in Gotham) that Sylvia forgave him for his betrayal.

To say that Oswald and Sylvia's friendship with Edward Nygma was anything but simple was an understatement. Perhaps it was this complexity that made the trio's friendship that much more unique, and worth having.

"What is that?" She asked impatiently, her eyes casting to the side for a glimpse of the little cube, which was elegantly wrapped in black and gold paper with a matching, black ribbon tied neatly in a bow.

"A gift."

"For Ed?"

"Yes."

"As long as it's not something that can be used as a weapon," Sylvia muttered, glaring at the traffic ahead of her.

"Do you think Ed would suddenly become violent?" Oswald asked coolly, ignoring her waspish tone.

"No, but ever since the hand-stabbing incident with Fish, I'd be wary of any gifts you give to _anyone_." She glanced at him shortly before checking both lanes, signaling, and then steadily gliding to the right to change her lane.

"Including you?"

" _Including_ me," Sylvia conceded, smirking at him.

The crooked grin on her face lifted his spirits. While the days had continued, Sylvia's mood swings had become almost intolerable. Her grumpy attitude that had wavered whilst in their drive had become that much apparent, and Oswald was relieved to see that he could make her smile.

"How was he?" He asked lightly, as he looked at her. "When you last saw him?"

"Miserable," Sylvia answered; she emitted a low, frustrated sigh as she tapped her breaks. "Of _course,_ I have to get stuck behind a bus. That's just _great_ …" She sighed deeply, closing her eyes for a moment, before she continued calmly: "Ed looked miserable."

"What did you two discuss?"

"The weather, Hugo Strange, the monsters in Gotham, stock market values," She listed, and smiled sheepishly at him when Oswald looked a little more than suspicious. "What do you _think_ we discussed, honey?"

"A little more than just that."

"Your jealousy is showing."

Oswald rolled his eyes, muttering, "I'm not jealous."

"You're seething."

"I am not seething."

To his dismay, Sylvia nodded as though she was placating him. But he couldn't help it.

When he thought of Sylvia and Edward together, all he could see was the two of them engaged in some animalistic, kissing frenzy. Yes, he'd decidedly overlooked it…Ed was overtly apologetic the last time he had visited him. But the thought was still there, wasn't it? And yet, he'd seen Sylvia kiss Barbara Kean right in front of him, and while he was bothered by it, per se, he wasn't nearly driven to insanity with the image. Perhaps it was knowing that Sylvia hadn't ever felt anything more than appeal towards Barbara whereas she'd previously admitted to having had romantic feelings for his male friend.

Either way, Oswald grumpily leaned back in his seat, avoiding her gaze.

Sylvia clicked her tongue thoughtfully as she watched the taxis swivel through the lanes, dropping off their fares; the bus in front of them hadn't moved at all in the past five minutes. Her nostrils flared as she steadily inhaled and exhaled deeply, maintaining her composure.

"Are you still attracted to him?"

Sylvia startled at the question, glancing at him.

"I've told you before. I'm not."

"Not even a little?"

"What little attraction I had to him disappeared when I found out what he did to Jim, Oswald." Sylvia reiterated patiently, although she was close to losing her patience; they'd had this conversation several times now, haven't they! "I only see him as a friend."

" _Only_ as a friend?"

"Are you _sure_ you're not jealous?"

"I'm not."

"I think you are."

"I said I'm not!" Oswald snapped.

Sylvia raised her eyebrows at him, pointing out that he had just proven her point with his frustrated outburst. She didn't acknowledge her victory with any sort of gloating remark, knowing that if she pushed Oswald too much, the two of them would be in another heated argument before the day was out. Their first argument about whether toast was a good option for breakfast was _enough_ for one day. Another idiotic quarrel was just too much.

"So…" She said softly, tapping her fingernails along the leather steering wheel. "What do you want to do for dinner?"

Oswald noted her tone, how soft and soothing it was.

"You're changing the subject."

"Seeing as you're still moody about what happened between us—"

"—I'm not moody. You're telling me I'm jealous, when I've told you _several_ times that I am not. How many times are we going to have this conversation?"

"Just admit that you are and we're done," Sylvia said curtly. "I _know_ how you act when you're jealous, Oz. Everything about the way you're acting says it all. You ask me what Ed and I talk about and you're suspicious because we don't talk about relationships or about you? What the hell do you call that!"

Oswald rolled his eyes.

"Here we go—rehashing the same argument…"

"We're only friend. He knows where I stand, and he respects that. I know where _I_ stand, and I've told you _several_ times that you have nothing to worry about. I told you before that if I ever thought about cheating on you, you'd be the first to know. Remember me saying that?"

"I recall you saying something to that affect, yes," Oswald admitted, frowning at her.

The silence in the car was most unbearable. He felt as though he might suffocate from the grip of it. As Sylvia parked the car in front of the asylum, she was about to get out but Oswald took her wrist, and she stopped moving. She met his eyes, those cerulean orbs boring into his.

"I love you, Pigeon." He said remorsefully.

"I love you too," Sylvia returned. Her frown disappeared, and morphed into a soft smile. "And Ilove _only_ you."

Oswald closed his eyes as she touched his face with the gentle caress of her palm, the softness of her skin, her warmth. He felt her lips touch his, kissing him. He returned it in such a way that was passionate, that even if he couldn't apologize properly, he could convey it in a single gesture.

When the kiss naturally broke, Sylvia looked at him endearingly.

"Are we okay?" She whispered.

"Yes. Forgive me for thinking badly of you, I…"

"We all get a little insecure."

He smiled when she said what he was afraid to say. Yes, he was insecure. More than he feared anything else, Oswald was afraid that another man (or a woman) would see Sylvia as he saw her and she would leave him. He doubted that he could take a heart break like that—not in this lifetime or the next.

Oswald moved out of the car, taking the little gift box with him. Sylvia met him in front of the car.

"You're doing better in traffic," He cared to note as they walked together through the gate.

"It's an illusion," Sylvia responded, chuckling to herself. "I had to literally bite my tongue in order to not scream at anyone."

She poked her tongue out, and Oswald grimaced when he saw that she had done what she said—teeth marks on her tongue, a little blood, but at least she hadn't bitten through the muscle completely.

"I'll drive on the way back."

"My tongue will heal." Sylvia said carelessly, opening the double doors so that she and Oswald walked in.

Their silence came as they entered the hospital. For Sylvia, it was a matter of revisiting the place that gave her a hard time. For Oswald, it was like coming back to Hell.

He could hear the screams through the walls, even though silence was the only thing that greeted them in the hallways. It became a white noise after some time.

The guards that greeted them weren't fond of seeing either of them, but they acknowledged Oswald and Sylvia as guests. Both were given a guest pass and seated inside a room where the patient would be escorted through the door and seated by a guard.

In the quiet room, Sylvia looked around, unable to sit as she was restless on a daily basis. Oswald minded her prowling feet; the occasional click of her heels as she paced slowly around the room. When the door opened, both Sylvia and Oswald met the appearance of the correctional guard, who pulled Edward Nygma into the clearing, and forcibly sat him down. The guard returned to his post just in front of the door.

At first neither Sylvia nor the other two gentlemen spoke. While they were seated in front of each other, Sylvia stood in her own little world, minding the steel-like doors, the golden light that hid behind the translucent, shell-like wall, and the guard who remained still as he looked at all three of them with more spite than what might have been humanely possible.

"Do you want a chair?" The guard asked as he met her eyes with an unhinged gaze of his own.

"No. I prefer to stand." Sylvia replied just as coolly. "The question is do _you_ want a chair?"

"I don't need one."

"I didn't say that."

"You did, you just asked—"

"Whether you 'want' something or you 'need' it are two separate things." Sylvia returned smartly; she approached him and his entire body became as stiff as a statue. "For instance, I _want_ you to leave."

"I'm expected to remain here throughout the visit," the guard insisted although he appeared to want less than that. "It's hospital policy."

"'No patient left behind' kind of thing?"

"Something like that."

"No one's dying here tonight. If you want to go get a cup of coffee, I'll make sure nothing happens. You have my word."

Ed and Oswald glanced at each other knowingly: Sylvia didn't care whether the guard did as she wanted. She was just having a bit of fun. While she toyed with the guard, Oswald placed the little gift box in front of Ed, who peered at it curiously, lifting his eyes to him in response.

Wordlessly, Ed unwrapped it and saw that it was a box. Colorful designs on each side, glossy.

"It's a puzzle." Oswald said, smiling widely. "The trick is opening it. The man at the store said that it is one of the most difficult ever made. People pass it down, unsolved, for generations. A mathematician once went mad trying to…"

As he spoke, Ed fiddled with the puzzle like a Rubik's cube and within seconds, it unfolded itself and lied flat on the table. Oswald was slightly taken aback, but smiled at his friend's ingenuity, before saying, "Well…yes, there you go!"

There was a slight click of the door, after which both Ed and Oswald glanced in Sylvia's direction. The guard was gone, and she was alone. She grinned broadly at the gentlemen before prowling over to the table and sitting in a chair that the guard had only moments ago placed beside Oswald, thinking that she'd sit in it. He had not been mistaken.

"Where did the guard go?" Ed asked.

"I told him to get a cup of coffee," Sylvia responded nonchalantly. "I said I would make sure nothing bad would happen. Weren't you there when I said all of this?"

"And he believed you?"

"I can be very persuasive. I just hate when people stand over me. Like a teacher just _hovering_. Gets on my nerves."

"Huh."

Sylvia glanced at the object sitting in front of him and said curiously, "Oz, wasn't that—"

"He solved it," Oswald answered, smiling at her.

"How do you put it back together?" She questioned, taking the 'box' and placing it in front of her. She started fiddling with it, and soon became absorbed in its mechanics.

"It was a lovely thought," Ed commented.

"And did you get the biscuits?" Oswald asked, concerned. "And the sweater? I know how drafty the rooms can be—"

"—Mr. Penguin—"

"—Oswald—"

"—When I think of how I treated you—"

"—Stop…"

"Why are you being so kind to me?" Ed asked in spite of Oswald's command.

Sylvia said distractedly as she fiddled with the toy, "Fuck this thing…how do you… _what_ …"

Oswald and Ed, again, minded Sylvia's presence, glancing at each other with identical expressions of amusement. However, he answered his question thoughtfully: "Talking with you these past few months, I don't know how I would have gotten by otherwise. Fish out there planning who-knows-what. Me, being surrounded by morons and lunatics."

Ed lifted his eyes up to the ceiling and muttered, "I know the feeling."

"Why didn't she kill me when she had the chance?" Oswald pressed worriedly. "I was powerless. She must have a larger goal; I _need_ to know what she is doing."

"I'd like to know that as well." She started stacking the pieces as though they were a deck of cards until they fell out ungracefully, adding, "And how to put this fucking thing back together. This thing didn't come with a pamphlet of directions, did it?"

Ed took the box that was sitting in front of Sylvia and with little indication as to how he knew, he put the box together in five easy steps then placed the box in front of her again. Sylvia gave him a look before she smiled.

"As for Fish," Ed said calmly, "do you really need to know what she's planning?"

"She's out for blood."

"Because Oswald pushed her off a building…"

"Well, _that_ , and I inadvertently killed her mother back in the old days," She explained flippantly. "For all I knew, Fish always said her mother was dead. How was I to know that her mother sung at her club…"

"But you killed her?"

"Without a doubt."

"So, she's after the both of you."

"That's what it looks like," Sylvia sighed, sitting back in her seat. "Personally, I'd like to know just what she's planning..."

"Do you, though?" Ed questioned, and Oswald and Sylvia looked at him, both taken aback by his query.

Silently, Ed tore the gift-wrapping paper in half and then rested his hands under the table so neither of them could see what he was doing. As subtle as his motion was, Sylvia grinned.

"When Alexander encountered the Gordian knot, a knot so complex that no one had been unable to untangle it…he just removed his sword, and cut it in two," Ed narrated with a soft chuckle. "Details can be distracting. Sometimes…a simple solution is best. So, no matter what she is planning, just remember" (Ed revealed his creation by placing an origami penguin in front of Oswald) "Penguins eat _fish_."

Oswald grinned at the little origami with a child's wonder.

"Basically, you're telling us 'don't worry'." She said quietly, getting to her feet.

"Sit back down." Oswald said patiently.

"I'm _tired_ of sitting. I sit at home, I sit in the car, I sit here—I'm _tired_ of sitting. I'm tired of being tired of sitting…"

"The doctor said—"

"Fuck what the doctor says." Sylvia growled, tapping the table sharply with her hand as she scooted out her chair and started padding the floor restlessly.

Ed glanced between the two of them with an unfamiliar expression which made Sylvia chuckle. Rarely did this man ever appear confused but confusion was all over his face.

"Why can't she stand?" Ed asked, glancing at Oswald. "I've seen her lift a human over her head before and…"

"I'm pregnant." Sylvia explained effortlessly. "Doctor's orders—but given that these doctors work in Gotham, I fail to see the practicality in following their command."

"Oh!" Ed responded, startled. He blinked and said encouragingly, "Well, congratulations. That's good news, isn't it?"

"It's maddening is what it is."

Oswald looked at both Ed and Sylvia, watching the interaction with his subtle suspicion. However, as he observed their conversation, he noticed a few things: Ed made certain not to get within a foot of Sylvia's company, including touching her—maybe that was the consideration on his friend's part…but there was certainly a platonic element there.

"Do you know the gender?" Ed asked curiously.

"That won't be for some time." Sylvia returned, touching her belly thoughtfully. "But we will love it regardless, won't we, Oz?"

Oswald said with a smile, "Yes, we will."

"I'm really happy for you, Liv." Ed returned sincerely. "I'd give you a hug but…the guards don't prefer contact."

"What's contact _really_."

Oswald watched Ed and Sylvia hug, but despite the sudden hot flash of his own unbridled possession when it came to Sylvia and other men, he found that this feeling of jealousy that had been present in the car was no longer presiding. Sylvia conversed with Ed in the same fashion that she did with any of his staff, including Victor Zsasz…when comparing that friendship with this one, Oswald concluded that what Sylvia had said was true: At least where Sylvia was concerned, she had _no_ romantic feelings towards Ed.

Even if Ed had the same for her, Oswald trusted her.

"Sylvia."

"Yes, sweetheart?"

Sylvia turned to Oswald expectantly, and he said with a softness only he could project, "Would you mind giving us a moment?"

"Sure. I'm going to get a coke."

She touched Ed's shoulder; the latter smiled at her, and said, "It was great to see you again, Liv."

"You too, Ed. Take care!"

He watched her leave.

And now there were two.

Oswald sat in front of Ed, who looked at him with a subtle expectation. They were going to acknowledge the elephant in the room, in spite of its awkward platitude.

"I know what you're going to ask."

"As intelligent as your mind is, I wouldn't be surprised." Oswald returned, smiling in spite of himself. "You _do_ understand why I need to, though, don't you?"

Ed raised a hand as though he was taking the oath in court, saying, "I promise, Oswald. I have no ill intentions towards Sylvia."

"Well, in all retrospect, I didn't expect any 'ill' intentions. The opposite, actually."

"What happened between us—it was a mistake. I have always admired Sylvia for many reasons, and her loyalty is one of them. I can't tell you how sorry I am for what I did, but as I've told her, it won't happen again."

"And I forgive you," Oswald reassured. He smiled again, saying, "It's not like I _don't_ know…when she's on stage, people look at her all the time. It happens so often…She attracts many people…"

"I won't pretend that I don't like her. She's nice. She's been a friend to me more than most people." He cleared his throat, phasing over his fondness for Sylvia. "You won't have to worry about me. There's no 'us'. Especially after I framed her brother."

"Yes, she's told me that more than once."

"We _are_ just friends."

Oswald nodded, letting that news settle. He'd heard it from Sylvia several times, more than enough times, actually. But there was something comforting about hearing it from Ed as well. And he was obviously still apologetic for what happened, especially now as they had become friends.

"So, she managed to get the guard to leave," Ed said conversationally, looking behind him.

"Yes, she has a passion for negotiation."

"She certainly has her way of getting things done."

"That, she does."

"Did she really kill Fish's mother?"

"It appears that way."

"How did she do that per chance?"

"Bullet wound."

"And she didn't know that was her?"

"Apparently not. Sylvia can be impulsive."

"Especially when it comes to the people she cares about. It's actually quite scary, if you think about it. How quick she is about avenging her people."

"It can be intimidating," Oswald said thoughtfully. "One of our staff departed for his own reasons. She has taken it personally."

"Who was it?"

"Mr. Bell."

"The _butler_?"

"Yes, that was my reaction too. Mr. Bell formed a paternal-like bond with Sylvia and when he left so suddenly, she had something of a negative response."

"No one was hurt, I hope."

"She picked Butch up over her head and threw him into the wall, punched _me_ in the face—we had to sedate her with tranquilizer darts. It was quite the spectacle. And yet, when she found out what happened to her mother, she had no response what so ever. She's unpredictable."

"Her mother?"

"Mrs. Gordon, yes."

"What happened to _her_?"

Oswald leaned forward and uttered quietly, "Suicide."

Ed's eyebrows furrowed together as he said softly, "That's unfortunate."

"I thought the same."

"How is she?"

"I doubt she cares." Oswald said, shrugging carelessly.

"Well, there it is. She only has violent impulses fit for the people she cares about."

"Yes, it appears that way."

"I can't imagine what she would do if she lost _you_."

Oswald found that statement a little too close to home but he didn't comment on it. While Oswald considered himself to be on the same level of intellect as his friend, he felt that he was a lot more perceptive than Ed. For a fact, Oswald was certain that Ed was pointing out that while Sylvia _did_ care for her friend, she ultimately cared for _him_ more. And that made Oswald grin modestly.

After all, didn't Sylvia say she loved only him?

That was a comforting thought, indeed. And it made Oswald feel less envious of whatever romantic feelings Ed might have for his wife, if any did remain.

"I suspect you'll be coming by for another visit?" Ed asked, mindful that their time was nearly up—the guards weren't particular about anything but time was always their butt-clenching X factor.

Oswald stood, and Ed did the same.

"Of course. Until then, my friend."

Ed shook it. And for a minute, Ed didn't feel like a prisoner. He had felt like his own man, just meeting with a friend over a business proposition. It only lasted a few more minutes and it was gone when the same guard returned to put him back in his cell, although Ed noticed that the guard was less grumpy now that he had his coffee. The guard simply opened his door, and Ed was free to walk in instead of being thrown forward as the guard might have done on any other occasion. Perhaps that was Sylvia's doing. Maybe not…Ed preferred to think that it was.


	19. Delilah's Accomplice

Chapter Nineteen: Delilah's Accomplice

* * *

Back at her club, _Lean on Vee_ , Sylvia was serving her people alongside Demetri Byrd, who had steadily become an expert in throwing unruly regulars out when the time called for it. Now that Delilah was out of the picture, Sylvia was down one bartender, so naturally, she fit herself in the spot. While the customers looked too honored to be served a drink by their own Patron, Demetri noticed how relaxed his boss appeared, considering this could be a thankless job, sometimes.

As Sylvia handed one of her rougher Regulars a beer, Demetri leaned his right side against the bar, watching her with a subtle expression of amusement and something else.

"What're you smiling at?" Sylvia asked.

"You."

"Why?"

"You like this job, don't you?"

"Like it, maybe not, but I've done this job long enough—it fits me like a glove," Sylvia returned flatly. She wiped the bar counter down with a new wash cloth, glancing its polished surface, before crossing her arms over her chest and looking at him plainly. "Back in the old days, I used to be a barmaid and a waitress."

"Do you miss the old days?"

"Which ones?"

Demetri smiled modestly: "When you were a bartender."

"Working under Fish, I didn't mind it so much. Working under Maroni—it was fun at first, but it became intolerable after a time."

Demetri's expression changed from that of amusement to one of puzzlement as he said slowly, "But I thought you hated Fish."

"She and I were like a mother-daughter team until the point when she hurt my husband and tried to kill me more than once. Even now, the mere thought of her gives me some bittersweet feelings—I almost miss her… _almost_."

Demetri shifted uneasily on his feet, like something was bothering him. Sylvia glanced him over.

"Are you alright, kid?" She asked carefully.

"Pretty good, yeah, why?"

"Just asking. You look a little nervous."

"I'm not nervous—I mean, your people make me nervous, but you know…you don't."

Demetri glanced at Dagger and Chilly who were guarding the doors with a leery gaze.

"Hm."

"Why? Does that bother you?"

"I don't care if I make you nervous. However," Sylvia said slowly, every syllable being enunciated with accentuated suspicion, "you've been acting _very_ odd since Delilah left."

"You mean 'was killed'."

"Yes, that's what I meant. I didn't think I had to say it though for you to understand."

"Delilah was one of the older ones," Demetri said quietly. "She had a place here, Miss Sylvia. A way of being almost permanent. One night, she leaves the bar, and then she's dead the next day. That'd make anyone nervous."

A brief moment passed between them during which Sylvia stared at him for the longest time, and Demetri was shifting his weight interchangeably from one foot to the other, like he couldn't stay in one place for too long.

"Is something wrong?" He asked uncertainly.

Sylvia clicked her tongue and said calmly, "Nothing. Nothing's wrong. But you know…Delilah wasn't alone in trying to undermine me, Demetri. She had an accomplice, a partner, if you will. Someone close to her, someone like a boyfriend, maybe just a friend—who knows. Due to my mistakable impulse, I failed to see the full picture. That was until someone pointed it out to me. I could have found out through her who her co-conspirator was, but I didn't."

Demetri frowned as he lowered his head submissively, muttering, "I don't mean any disrespect, Miss Sylvia, but why are you telling me this?"

"You're perceptive, enough. Smart enough, even. Maybe you can tell _me_."

"You suspect someone on the inside?"

"Yes. I do. That's not a comforting thought for me, is it?"

"I'd say that isn't good business for anyone, Ma'am."

"You got that fucking right."

"So how do you find out if there's a second person?"

"No 'if'. I _know_ Delilah had someone else," Sylvia stated calmly as she made a few more drinks for the customers who'd sauntered up to the counter for seconds.

She greeted them with a warm smile, but the moment they turned their backs, her frustrated hard smile returned as she looked at Demetri, who managed a small smile of his own, however worrisome and complex.

"It can be anyone. Someone close enough to Delilah; she felt comfortable enough talking to them about me, about getting rid of me at least…Tell me, Demetri. Do _you_ have anyone in mind?"

"I don't, Ma'am."

"No one you suspect that would want to take me on?"

"I can't imagine…"

"You'd be surprised." Sylvia said, cracking a genuine grin. "Perhaps I'm being paranoid, huh?"

"I wouldn't blame you for it."

"No? Why?"

"You have a lot on your plate," Demetri explained as he gave a drink to another customer, turning to her only after they left. "You've got this place to run, not to mention doing whatever it is you do with the meetings and the Underworld. It's a lot."

"So I have your sympathy, is that it?"

"Well, I wouldn't call it that. But yeah. And my respect."

Sylvia eyed him carefully, trying to size him up.

"Perhaps I'm thinking of this all wrong."

"Meaning?"

"I'm trying to find flaws within my own ranks," Sylvia muttered, rubbing her face. "It's driving me insane…perhaps Delilah _knew_ she was being watched, so she made up a story, a way of making my spy _think_ she had someone else on the phone. It'd distract me from the bigger picture, enough for someone else who was waiting patiently by the side lines to come in and stab me in the back while I'm running circles trying to find someone who's not even real…just made up."

"That's crazy," Demetri exclaimed, raising his eyebrows.

"But it's doable. In Gotham, everything is."

"Delilah was smart but not _that_ smart."

Sylvia looked at him pointedly saying, "You knew her _that_ well, did you?"

"Well enough, I'd think. We worked together frequently, Miss Sylvia."

"And yet, you believe you know her so well not to come up with some convoluted plan to overthrow me?"

"Maybe I'm just perceptive—you said so yourself."

Sylvia nodded, considering this. She'd told him that before, hadn't she? Demetri was quiet, often times, soft spoken. In fact, he reminded her a great deal of Oswald back when he was serving Fish her umbrella. Oswald had behaved like a submissive sycophant around her, but—as Fish learned—there was a whole other side to him. Sylvia looked at Demetri for the longest time, a nerve being poked too often that her mind was turning gears, and the suspicion that tugged on her gut was more than she could bear.

"Come with me." Sylvia ordered dryly.

Startled by her command, Demetri flinched. Seeing as how he could do little to distract her, Demetri nodded. Like a man walking to his death, he followed her up the stairs to her office. After he entered, Sylvia closed the door behind her and she gestured to the seat where he slowly sat. Sylvia leaned her backside against the front edge of her desk, her arms crossed over her chest as she peered down at him from heavy eyelids, staring at him so hard that Demetri was starting to sweat under her icy gaze.

"We're going to put some honesty between us," Sylvia said calmly, although her tone was sharper than any time he'd listened to her.

"Yes, Ma'am, but—"

"You've been behaving strangely, ever since Delilah was killed. You've been walking on egg shells around me, and even then, you've been giving me compliments out of the wazoo, agreeing with me on whatever I say, so one has to wonder: _What_ is your deal?"

"Deal? I have none."

"Not with me, at least."

"Ma'am?"

She leaned forward, her hands steadily gripping both arms of Demetri's chair; the latter leaned back, intimidated by her strong presence.

"Were you close to Delilah?"

"Well…"

"Answer the fucking question."

"Ma'am, we were close, but I don't—"

"—Close enough to be lovers, I bet."

"Not lovers…"

"Cut the crap. _You're_ the second person," Sylvia breathed, her eyes glowering dangerously at him. "Aren't you, Demetri?"

"Ma'am, you've got this _all_ wrong, I swear to god—"

She straightened and immediately backhanded him. Demetri gasped, grabbing his face from where she'd slapped him; a red handprint flush on his right cheek. He slowly looked at her, innocent in appearance, stricken with uncertainty and fear.

"You _are_ Delilah's accomplice, aren't you?"

"Miss Sylvia, I'm not!"

"Tell me why you've been acting so fucking strange then!" Sylvia snapped, glaring at him. "Tell me why you've been _so_ eager to learn the ropes! Tell me why Dagger and Chilly—both of them—have come to me and said that you've been asking questions about the business—"

He held up his hands and whimpered, "M-Miss Sylvia, I swear—I swear to you, I'm _not_ working against you!"

"You're just working for me, right?"

"Yes!"

"Mm-hmm…" She responded, unconvinced. "I've grown tired of these betrayals. Every day it's _something_. Every week, it's _someone_. It's really exhausting. And just with Delilah, I didn't expect you to…After all I've done for you, you would betray me like this."

She walked around so she stood behind her desk, opening a drawer.

Fearful that she was searching for the means to end his life, Demetri suddenly fell out of the chair and then crawled on his hands and knees over to her; he clasped his hands together, and looked up at her, pleading.

"Miss Sylvia…Miss Sylvia, _please_. **Please** believe me—look, look! I confess, I admit that Delilah and I were close, but we were just friends, just _friends—_ nothing else. I love you too much, too much to do anything to you, Miss Sylvia, you have to see that! You have to!"

Sylvia watched him, and while her hard expression didn't shift in the slightest degree, he definitely pulled on her heart strings. A man who was on his knees, begging for her forgiveness for a mistake that he allegedly never made—she felt so heartless, and yet, hadn't she been down this road so many times already?

"Prove to me that it wasn't you."

"How can I?"

"That's for _you_ to figure out. Otherwise," She said harshly, "I'm going to take this gun" (She removed the weapon from the drawer through which she'd searched its contents, and pulled it out of its sheath) "and shoot you in the fucking face. _Just_ like I did with Delilah. And no one will be the wiser."

"Oh god—Miss Sylvia, please! Please, please, I'll do anything! Anything, just tell me what I need to do and I'll do it."

Sylvia stared at him, seeing the tears fleetingly leave his eyes and dampen his cheeks. That look of desperation…

"If you asked it of me," Demetri all but stammered, "I-I will do anything, anything—you've done so much for me—"

"And that's what makes this so fucking hard, you know." Sylvia sighed, looking up at the ceiling. "My spy heard Delilah—the bitch mentioned that I'd done so much for her as well…and so much for the other person too. I pulled you out of that dingy coffee shop, gave you a place to stay, a better job, and this is what it's coming down to. Every person I help comes back and bites me in the ass, and I'm getting pretty sick of getting stabbed in the back for being a good person. That's what makes _this_ situation so much harder, you know."

Sylvia opened the barrel, placed a single round in it, and then snapped it shut with the flick of her wrist. Demetri's eyes widened, but that didn't deter him from trying to appeal to her motherly side.

"Miss Sylvia, _please_." He whispered. His voice slowly gave out as the image of his brains splattered on the wall was becoming much too real. "Please…god, no…fuck, please tell me what I must do to prove that I'm not disloyal. If given the chance, I'd open any artery that you would request of me, I would—god, I would—please just don't kill me!"

Sylvia reached behind her, grabbing a switchblade from the back pocket of her jeans; she pressed the button, the blade shot out of its metal crevice, and she placed it on the desk pointedly—so certain that he was only trying to get her to lower her guard.

"You _are_ Delilah's accomplice. Aren't you, Demetri? You _are_ the person she was working with, planning to uproot all that I've built." Sylvia said knowingly, staring him down painfully. "You can deny it _all_ you want, pretend or what-have-you, but we _both_ know it. Don't we?"

"Miss Sylvia…I'm sorry…"

"Ah!"

She frowned; her eyes widened dangerously and she placed the gun to his head.

"See…he confesses, finally."

"Miss Sylvia, please…we didn't— _I_ was wrong, I didn't realize—I was…I'm sorry, I'm _so_ sorry…Please…"

"I took you in, treated you like a son, and what did—oh my god, now I see why Fish was furious…" She clicked the gun so that the safety was back on, and she added, "I'm having a major De Ja Vu over here…Well…this certainly has given me more respect for the bitch."

Demetri stared up at her, uncertain as to what would happen.

"Sylvia—"

"I know, you're sorry, blah, blah, blah. I've heard this before. It doesn't change the facts though, does it? You betrayed me, and now, I must kill you."

"Delilah pulled the wool over my eyes, Miss Sylvia—now that she's gone, I see things differently."

"If that's true, that's good, but what's to stop you from having the wool pulled over your eyes a second time?" She remarked unhappily. "Once a traitor, always a traitor."

"I'm still useful to you!"

"How?"

"I'm smart—"

"If you were 'smart', you'd have never turned against me."

"I can still be valuable."

"How."

It was a question as Demetri heard it. She was skeptical, and her current mood was revealed to him in all but name: voice, expression, and the subtle click as she cocked the hammer of the gun and was on the verge of killing just another traitor.

"Delilah was power-hungry! She was going to go after anyone and everyone who had power—not just you, but-but Penguin, and anyone else! She was gonna do whatever she could—whatever was _necessary—_ I didn't believe in that, I didn't want that, I tried to stop her…"

"You had every chance to come to me," Sylvia responded curtly; her harsh tone made Demetri flinch. "But you didn't! What does that make _you_!"

"I'm **begging** you…please forgive me, please! I was stupid—a moron, but I know now…Please, what must I do to earn your forgiveness, to earn a place back in—"

"You _know_ what you have to do." She said heatedly, gesturing to the switchblade sitting on her desk. "As fickle as your loyalty is, I doubt you've ever…"

Demetri stood, taking her by surprise, but he reached over, grabbed the blade, and slit his right forearm from the inner elbow down to his radial. He screamed bloody murder the entire time; blood splattered onto his face and onto Sylvia once he hit the artery.

"Holy _shit_!"

Sylvia snatched the knife from him, still in shock. Quickly, the man became incoherent.

"Fuck _this_ , man!" She squeaked.

She grabbed her cell phone, bent down to Demetri as he fell over onto the floor, and dialed 9-1-1. The ambulance came in a hot second.

"What's your relationship to the patient?" The driver questioned.

"I'm his manager, now _go_."

That seemed to be enough.

Sylvia sat in the ambulance, alongside Demetri whose arm was wrapped in heavy gauze; he underwent a great deal of intravenous pain killers. Meanwhile, the extra EMTs were asking personal questions like whether or not he was allergic to penicillin or any other medication that she was aware of, and what was his blood type. Then the patient was shoved through the hospital feet first through Gotham General's Emergency Room on a gurney, roughly passed from the ER doctor to the ER surgeon and surgery was done to stitch his arm back together before he lost enough blood.

* * *

Standing out of the surgery post-operative room, Sylvia nibbled on the fingernail of her pinky.

"Fuck me…" She mumbled.

And here she was, in yet another complex predicament.

On one hand: Demetri confessed to being Delilah's known conspirator, the accessory to what would have been her downfall and—if Delilah had gotten her way—her own and Oswald's demise. She would have been more than justified in killing him.

On the second: Demetri had done what neither Sylvia nor Oswald would have done to prove a loyalty so fierce just moments after betrayal. He _literally_ opened an artery for her, on the spot. And he seemed more than apologetic, after having his mind warped by someone as manipulative as Delilah.

And here she was. She could kill him, or…give him a second chance.

But giving him a second chance would mean turning her back to him just so he could what, one day actually do what Delilah had failed to accomplish? It was so risky, _so_ risky…it'd be one thing if Sylvia had only herself to look after but now, that was no longer the case, was it?

Sylvia put her hands on her stomach. Her hormones were all over the place, sure—the bloating, the nausea, her aversion for foods she once loved—all of it were signs of her body slowly adjusting to holding a human inside. And while Sylvia couldn't _feel_ the baby inside—kicking, camping, watching TV, what have you—Sylvia was more than aware that everything in her life would be centered around it.

"It's okay," She whispered, rubbing her stomach. "It's okay, Little One. Mommy's not going to let anyone harm you…At this point though, I'd say Demetri's okay. Wouldn't you agree?" There was no significant movement, but at this point, the docs said she wouldn't be feeling much of anything…still, a small push in the right direction would have been more than reassuring. Even if it _was_ by only a baby.

* * *

Sylvia sat in the waiting room, contemplating her decision.

 _To kill or not to kill Demetri Byrd, that's the question_.

"Getting all Shakespearean up in here," She muttered, rubbing her temples with her index fingers.

"Sylvia?"

That was the doctor's voice. She looked up at him expectantly, standing to her feet.

"You're here for Mr. Byrd, correct?"

"Correct. How is he?"

"He's doing fine. Recovery might take a few weeks, but he's awake if you want to talk to him."

"I'd like to, yes."

"Very well, follow me, please."

Sylvia did as the doctor ordered and she walked behind him, noticing the small delivery rooms of the hospital as well as the nurseries they passed. Curious, she peeked through the window, smiling when a little baby closest to her moved in the slightest bit. A glass window separated them, but the baby's little black hairs and shut eyelids made her grin regardless.

 _I'll be having one of those_ , she thought.

It somehow made her situation more complex than simple. As she entered through the doorway of Demetri's hospital room, the doctor explained a few things such as the IV fluids, the medication sitting on the counter, and the bandages in the garbage can, all of which Sylvia immediately understood.

The doctor excused himself when his pager started going off. Sylvia pulled the curtain around the bed, choosing privacy over publicity. Absent-mindedly, she sat on the edge of Demetri's bed; the latter opened his eyes, startled when he saw who she was, and he nearly fell out of bed with the realization.

"Easy! Easy," Sylvia cooed.

"What are you doing here? Why did they let you in?"

"I've been here often enough. Before you call the nurse," She cautioned as Demetri's thumb was on the call button. "I want to tell you…I'm not going to kill you."

"You—wait, you're not?"

"I'm not."

"Why?"

"Mm, now _you're_ suspicious of _me."_ She chuckled at the irony as she patted him on the shoulder. "Not the best feeling, is it?"

"No, ma'am."

"Well, not to worry. I'm leaving here in a few minutes—doctor's appointment, that sort of thing, but I just stayed to make sure you were okay, got out of surgery alright with little inconvenience…"

Demetri withdrew his hand from the call button, although he continued watching her carefully. He said just as cautiously, "So you…you're _not_ going to kill me for what I did…for what Delilah…"

"You betrayed me, Demetri. _That_ is never going to change. However, you did something that not even _I_ would have done in your circumstances and, well, to say the least, I'm fucking impressed. I underestimated you, definitely, so I'm thinking Delilah did too."

"Believe me. Had I known what she was going to do, I'd have **never** gone along with it."

"And what exactly did she have planned?"

"Burning everything of yours to the ground." He said unhappily. "Taking everything that you've ever have and making it hers."

"And what changed your mind?"

"Ma'am?"

"You heard me. Why the change of heart?"

"At first…at first it was because you just killed her. You cared so much for her, I thought."

"I did care for her, a great deal. But what I don't care for are people who lie to me, treat me like a friend and then go behind my back. If knowing that I will kill whomever I need to in order to keep my happiness scared you into your right mind, I'm happy that it did. I've only ever given one other person a second chance, Demetri. And even now, I still don't completely trust him—trust is hard to find in Gotham, you know."

"I do."

"What you did in the office though," She said quietly, "that's something that not a lot of people would have done. And not so adamantly either."

Demetri smiled modestly: "Yeah, well…"

Sylvia touched his shoulder and said lightly, "Get well, get better, I'll see you back at work, okay?"

"Yeah…yeah."

"Good man."

She began to leave but he caught her with a soft sound. She turned to him curiously.

"Miss Sylvia, I really _am_ sorry for what we were about to do." Demetri uttered sincerely. "It was a low-down thing, going behind your back. We were stupid…naive…"

"You made a mistake. We're human. It happens. Just make sure that you don't make the same mistake twice."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"I'll come by again and see how you're doing."

"Thank you…see you later."

Sylvia nodded, gave him a soft smile, and then she left.


	20. Move, Baby, Move

Chapter Twenty: Move, Baby, Move

* * *

Oswald stood outside his mansion in what could be seen as his backyard. In the night time, it looked like something from a horror movie, but in the day, it was breathtakingly beautiful. Lush green grass, a cluster of trees that led one to the open thickness of the forest yonder. The sun was hidden by the abundance of marshmallow, puffy clouds. It was a rare treat to see a sunny-like day in Gotham…most of the time, it seemed to look as though it had either suffered a monsoon or it was just bout to rain.

The hunt for Fish Mooney hadn't quite lost its appeal; however, after talking with Ed, worrying over someone as elusive as her was taking time out of his schedule—time that he didn't have. He'd been anticipating her capture for so long and so intensely; he'd even missed Sylvia's appointment with the baby doctor. Allegedly, it had gone well as Sylvia informed him over the phone…but Oswald could detect her passive-aggression effortlessly.

She was upset that he'd missed the appointment, but there was something else in her tone. ' _The baby's doing fine,_ _ **just**_ _so you know…not that you care…'_ she had said. Lord, he'd have to be an ignoramus to not hear the resentment!

Normally, he could take her wasp-like candor, especially after having missed the appointment. Normally, Sylvia was understanding of his schedule, the way Gotham's Underworld's problems affected both his personal life as well as his business. But perhaps he'd taken that for granted…? Then again, he wasn't so unaffected by the pregnancy either, was he?

While Sylvia carried his child, Oswald noticed a change in himself as well. Mood swings weren't new to him, but his own irritability was just off the charts. He read nearly more than half the books Sylvia had picked up from the libraries and book stores about women's pregnancy, child stages, labor, but only found one thing to explain his sleep deprivation and physical exhaustion: Couvade Syndrome. It sounded _ridiculous_ when he read that men could experience pregnancy symptoms: insomnia, mood swings— _that_ was all him, right on the paper.

Still…

Reading those books had given him a headache and thinking on his own problems made him just a little resentful towards Sylvia. Not that it was her fault, right? They both made the baby—hell, he was _there_ for it…but this wasn't something he'd ever thought he had to experience!

He was out of his depth, that was for sure!

A breath of fresh air would do the trick, he thought. It'd clear his head, get him out of his worry zone and when Sylvia came home, they'd have an open discussion about what the next step would be in their journey together. Or so he felt.

In the time that passed, Sylvia didn't come home as quickly as he'd expected. Instead, she was two hours late getting back. And she hadn't even called.

The sun was nearly set. When she met him on the veranda, Oswald was seated in a patio chair, tie loosened, collar relaxed, and he drank a cup of tea with mild contentment. She came up the patio stairs with a distant look on her face, one that he'd seen often in the past few days, but nothing that worried him too badly. She was silent, even as she pulled a lawn chair up to him and sat across from him.

"You're late."

"So, I am."

"Are you all right?"

"Peachy." Sylvia answered, crossing her arms. "How was your day?"

"Busy. Yours?"

"I found out who Delilah was in cahootz with."

Oswald suddenly looked at her, surprised. There goes his care-free feeling that had only been in place for a few minutes. And he'd been happily basking in it only for a second.

Worried, he sat up slightly, placing the cup of tea on the end table beside him.

"And?"

"It was Demetri."

"Oh." He scoffed. "I see—the man you picked up off the streets."

"The same."

"Is he dead?"

"No, but he's in the hospital."

"Was it your doing?"

"For once, it was not." Sylvia said smoothly, smiling in spite of the situation. "He did it to himself. He, quite literally, took out an artery to prove that he was still loyal to me. However, he did confess to working with Delilah, an attempt to overthrow me and possibly end my life as well as yours."

Oswald looked at her for a moment, at first pleased with her answer and yet, quite surprised, then confused.

Slowly, he said, "So…let me get this straight, _just_ so I know I'm not misunderstanding you by any means."

"Sure…"

"This homeless person you picked off the streets—like a stray—starts working for you. You trust this person enough to take a job within your establishment. Out of nowhere, seemingly, he decides to take up arms with _another_ one of your associates who betrays you, _admits_ to having done the same, and yet…He's still alive."

"That's right."

Oswald gestured to her.

"That is unacceptable."

"So, you'd prefer that I killed him?"

"I prefer that you eliminate any chance of him trying to kill _you_." He resounded unhappily, gesturing to her more emphatically. "You have, literally, an army at your disposal, a team that is deadlier than the GCPD could ever hope to train, and yet, you keep this stray alive for _what_ reason exactly?"

"You're being condescending, you know that, don't you?"

"I'm just trying to understand your motive for keeping this man alive."

"He said he didn't realize what Delilah's end game is."

"And you believe him?"

"I believe he was misguided, yes, I do. Delilah was manipulative—"

"—How manipulative could she be, she was a _waitress—"_

" _ **I**_ was a waitress before, hello!" Sylvia snapped, glaring at him. She stood, adding, "And Delilah fooled _me_ too, just so we're clear. She pretended she was innocent, afraid—"

"So, all it takes is for someone to plea and cry and it's all over; is that what you're telling me?"

"She was _scared_ , Oswald! She wanted to go to the doctor to find out if she was pregnant; it's a scary thing doing it alone for the first time after an uncomfortable experience— _not that you would know_!"

"She was _lying_ , Sylvia. I figured that it would have been made obvious to you."

"Well, _obviously,_ it wasn't." Sylvia responded hotly. "You want to make this about my naivety, then fine—be my fucking guest, but I'll be damned if I'm going to stand here and let you talk down to me like I'm some simpleton who doesn't do shit about a betrayal when I see one. Because frankly, you know _I_ did. She's dead now, buried five feet under the ground or whatever those people did with her after taking everything off her corpse. She's dead and rotting—that's enough for me."

"And what about this Demetri?" Oswald questioned, standing as well.

"What about him?"

"He's doing the same thing Delilah did. And you're letting him fool you!"

"I'm giving him a second chance! He carved his arm open to prove a point—I think that warrants a _little_ credit, don't you think?"

Oswald rolled his eyes, pressed two fingers over the bridge of his nose, and muttered, "This is unacceptable."

"If you want to go the hospital and do the deed yourself, be my guest. He's in ICU, room 240. _Have at it_." Sylvia said dryly. "Delilah was a bad apple—I won't deny that. But Demetri has something that not a lot of our people possess and _that's_ humility, **and** the balls to back it up. He was ready to die just to prove that he was loyal to me. Now, I don't know about you, but there's no way I would have done that for anyone unless I was being fucking serious about it. How could he lie after that?"

"You have no idea how much danger you're putting our child through, do you?"

Sylvia stared at him before saying dangerously, "I'm going to give you _five_ seconds to take **all** of that back."

"Demetri is going to be trouble, and you know it."

"He's also going to make one hell of an ally, but you don't see it."

"Perhaps I should go to the hospital, pay him a visit."

"Then _go_!" Sylvia snipped, motioning harshly in that direction. "For fuck's sake, _go_. Kill him, maim him, do whatever the fuck you want, Oswald—I told you, _be my guest_. But I think it's some fucking excuse. You've been going after Fish this entire fucking time with no results, so when Demetri shows his true colors, you see it as an opportunity to do something about it because it's the only thing you **can** do."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"You can't do a goddamn thing about anything or anyone!" She said starkly. "You're trying to keep me safe, but you can only do so much! You won't allow me to go to the meetings, fearing that people are going to notice that I'm starting to show. I've not gone on any contracts with Zsasz because _you_ think someone's going to one-up me in some gun toting battle, even though I've proven myself more than capable _several_ times in the past! You're naturally protective of me—more than ever since Gertrud passed away: I get it, and I understand that, but it's starting to suffocate me, Oz!"

Oswald stared at her, taking all of it in but not really knowing just how to respond to all of what she said.

"I'm trying to…" He began, but he wasn't sure what to say or how to convey what he wanted.

Sylvia sat down, her hands on her belly rubbing in concentric circles in consolation. Oswald noticed, and he watched her curiously. She suddenly smiled in spite of their argument, and it made him more curious.

"What? What's wrong?" He asked uncertainly.

Sylvia looked up at him.

"Come here."

He did as she asked and he watched her with growing interest as she pointed to the left side of her stomach. She guided his hand there, and when he poked the soft smooth ball of her stomach, the little bulge that had been seated inside of her womb suddenly disappeared as though the baby had felt it and had wriggled away. Sylvia put his hand on the other side; Amused, Oswald poked her again and the baby quickly moved to the other side.

"Fascinating." Oswald murmured.

"A little escape artist," Sylvia said quietly, smiling inwardly as Oswald poked the other side so the baby wriggled away again.

"I'd say so."

"It only took a few months. The doctor said that in the next few weeks, we may get to hear the heartbeat. I'd hope you come along with me on that visit."

Oswald nodded in agreement, then he felt a little guilty for snapping at her.

"Sylvia," He said gently. "You realize that I'm not trying to be overbearing…Don't you?"

"I know you're not." She reassured, now that her temper was diminished. "But, sweetheart" (She folded his hand in between her palms) "you need to realize that I'm not someone who can be easily caged. I _need_ my freedom. I need to be able to do what I want, when I want. Gotham is Gotham, remember?"

"Having someone like Demetri prowling about has not made it any easier, Pet."

"Then talk to him. If it will give you peace of mind, I insist."

"You really do believe he has changed, don't you?"

"I believe he's on that path. Currently, I'm still developing that trust—so for the time being, you can count that I won't be left alone with him anytime soon."

"Now, _that_ is a comforting thought." He said, smiling. "When is the next appointment?"

"Next Friday."

"I'll be there. I promise."

"Good." Sylvia returned, grinning. "Maybe we'll even find out if it's going to be a boy or girl. I can finally start finding some cute little onesies."

Oswald made a sound and she said knowingly, "Oh don't give me that look! You're going to be looking at baby clothes more than _me_."

He said nothing but he couldn't deny that she was probably right.


	21. Another One Bites The Dust

Chapter 21: Another One Bites The Dust

* * *

Sylvia sat adjacent to Oswald at the end of the dining table. The housekeeper, Olga, had prepared a dinner fit for three people as Sylvia requested and once the dinner had been completely set out, Sylvia had encouraged her to take a plate of her own and eat it wherever she found most fitting. Olga could understand what Sylvia was saying, but responding to her only in small adequate phrases ("Da") was all that was needed. When the maid/cook left the dining room, Oswald and Sylvia were beside themselves, eating in peace and quiet.

By no means was the silence uncomfortable. In fact, between the two of them, the silence was gratifying and most welcome. From the morning when Sylvia had discovered Demetri's betrayal, to getting him admitted to the hospital, going to the baby doctor appointment, coming back and after the argument that she and Oswald had only a few hours ago settled, it had been a long day for her. Even as they sat, it was only six-thirty in the evening, so the day was still not yet over.

"I think Grace took Olga for granted," She noted aloud after she finished eating the meat loaf with the ketchup paste.

Oswald looked at her, momentarily stumped by her sudden observation: "I'm sorry?"

"Your stepmother. Grace?"

Slightly embarrassed that he'd momentarily forgotten just to whom Sylvia was referring, he smiled in spite of himself and replied, "Yes, she has a flair for cooking, doesn't she?"

"Does she have any family?"

"Grace?"

"No. _Olga_."

"Oh! I'm not sure."

Sylvia giggled, "So easily distracted; your mind is all over the place, mister."

"I'm sorry. It's been a long day."

Sylvia frowned when her cell phone started to ring and she commented, "Apparently, not long enough."

She leaned ever so lightly to the right so she could get her phone out from the back pocket of her pants. When she saw who was calling, she rolled her eyes and answered it: "Barbara?"

"That's _my_ name, honey."

"What do you want?"

"Ooh, you sound tense. I sure hope I didn't interrupt anything!"

"It's fine," Sylvia placed her fork on her plate. Suddenly, she'd lost her appetite. "What's up?"

Oswald minded her from where he sat, watching her protectively.

"You might wanna head over here. Some loser came over here, tried to stiff us—I think he's in pretty bad shape. Don't know if it's one of yours, or—"

"He wouldn't be one of _mine_." Sylvia retorted coolly, placing the phone between her ear and the top of her shoulder. "If he was one of _my_ people, you would know."

"Ooh, _that's_ provocative."

"Is he injured?"

"Quite."

"Did you stab him?"

"Well, he hit me in the face, so naturally…you _know_ me, girlfriend. Do the math."

"Is Tabitha fine?"

"She's good—thanks for asking."

"I didn't care if she was alive or dead either way, but I know how much she means to you…for whatever reason."

"That's _so_ sweet. I'll tell her that."

"Don't bother. I can go there and tell her myself." Sylvia returned dryly. "What does the guy want?"

"He thinks we built shit on _his_ territory, won't stop talking about it…"

"So, it's a business dispute, then."

"Seems like it, doesn't it?"

"And you're sure it can't be settled by you _lovely_ ladies."

"Boy, I think I _did_ interrupt something. Your apathy is just all over the place, girlfriend."

Sylvia sighed, "Fine. We'll be there."

"Cool beans. See you later, baby." Barbara returned, and she made a swift ' _muah_ ' sound right after hanging up.

Oswald crossed his arms on the table, his plate of unfinished dinner forgotten the moment he heard Tabitha's name; his appetite skipped over him. When he saw Sylvia put her phone down, looking less than enthusiastic, he waited for her to talk. And she did.

"That was Barbara."

"And what did Ms. Kean want?"

"Some guy came over, tried to intimidate her and Tabitha, squeeze them for money. The club's on their territory, so now they're having a quarrel about profits and whatever else they have going on." Sylvia told him unhappily. She drank the last of her water, adding, "And here I was thinking we would have a quiet dinner for a change."

"You should know better than that, Pet." Oswald sighed, getting to his feet. He stopped shortly in front of Sylvia so he leaned down, kissed her forehead, and added lovingly, "However, I appreciate your optimism."

"Mm. That was my realist coming out. _Optimistically_ , we could let them sweat a little longer and have a little romp session, if you catch my drift," Sylvia hinted, smirking up at him as she leaned back in her chair and carefully lifted her foot up between his legs and gave his package a little nudge.

Oswald smiled at her in return; as well, his face blushed a nice shade of pink before he cleared his throat, all business-like. He lifted his cane and the end of it lightly tapped her ankle bone with a slight reprimand.

Sylvia shrugged, saying, "All work and no play today. Poor baby", lowering her foot back to the ground.

When he didn't let up, she shrugged again and then stood. He watched her take the plates into the kitchen; when she came back, she was pocketing a Glock between the waistband of her jeans and her hip.

"Wanna bring Butch?" Sylvia asked.

"Might as well."

"BUTCH!"

Oswald jumped when he heard her scream. Like a dog being whistled to the surrounding area, Butch responded to the summons, almost too readily. He appeared as though he'd been waiting just behind the closed doors for anything to happen.

"Hiya, Butchy." Sylvia said, grinning at him. "How's the mallet?"

Butch chuckled sarcastically, "Aren't you just funny. What's up?"

"Joy ride, darling."

Butch and Oswald followed her to the car. Pointedly, she took the driver's seat, leaving Oswald to occupy the passenger's while Butch happily crawled into the back, taking up the two seats once more. Oswald closed his door, looking at Sylvia momentarily as she fixed her hair in the rearview mirror.

"How are you feeling?" Oswald asked her.

"Frisky, but otherwise, peachy keen, jelly bean. How are _you_ feeling."

Oswald didn't respond to her statement verbally but he did offer her a modest smile.

Flattered by how often she was making passes at him, it was hard not to be tempted by her. When they had first started dating three years ago, Sylvia's casual flirts and passes had been overwhelming as they happened so often and so lightly, Oswald was never sure if she meant them or not. Knowing she meant every single flirt, he'd managed to take it all in stride. Every now and then, he had to exercise his own professionalism, knowing that Sylvia could care little about business prospects or perspectives.

Sylvia drove them to _The Sirens_ , a smoother ride than any Butch or Oswald had the luxury of experiencing. When they got there, all three of them stepped out of the car with Sylvia leading the trio through the doors. Like the last visit, she was passively watching the band on the stage; her nose curled in bias. It was some rag tag band crew with no pension for entertainment. Then again, maybe she caught them at a bad time—it was almost closing time, and they had to deal with the raucous man who was sitting on a couch, beat to a pulp with a bag of ice held just beneath his jaw.

She idly swooped by the bartender, who offered her a drink. Politely, she declined for reasons she didn't give them. When Sylvia approached the man, he looked at her uncertainly.

"Hey." She greeted, grinning lightly. "You look like shit."

He rolled his eyes. Just as he did, Barbara and Tabitha came sauntering in, looking more or less pleased with themselves with the outcome of their beating. Oswald and Butch came up shortly after they did, all meeting in that area.

"So…" Sylvia sighed. "What's his name?"

"Why does that matter?" questioned Tabitha. "He's a no-body."

"It matters because _I_ asked." Sylvia returned patiently, although her eyes glared daggers at Tabitha with little subtlety. "What's his name?"

Barbara and Tabitha glanced at each other, not knowing. So, Sylvia asked the man herself.

"Bowis." He said, rubbing his jaw. "My name is Bowis."

His speech impediment caused by the jaw injury was easy to notice.

"Boris." Sylvia repeated. "So, tell me, Boris. What happened?"

"I _told_ you what happened," Barbara said despondently. "Over the phone, remember?"

"I want to hear it from him."

"Why?" Tabitha asked.

"Because I do. Now if that's something you can't deal with, I'd love it if you just left the building, okay, please and thank you," Sylvia said crisply, holding out her hand ignoring Tabitha as she turned her attention to Boris, who was watching the women's interaction with curiosity, but mild appreciation for Sylvia's manners.

Tabitha grumbled something under her breath while Barbara said quietly, "Actually, she's in a pretty good mood. I wouldn't push your luck, babe."

Boris looked at Sylvia (sometimes glancing over her shoulder to address Oswald as well) as he said, "We were told that the cwub was built on our tewwitowy—so we came, saw that it was so, and then the bitches—"

"—Hey, _uncalled_ for! —" Barbara gasped, although she feigned hurt.

"—attacked me," Boris finished, glaring at them. He said to Sylvia, "They owe us money."

"' _Us_ '? Who's 'us'?"

"The losers that came with him," Tabitha answered for him.

"And, where are they?"

"Dead."

"Oh, how charming." Sylvia muttered, rolling her eyes. She looked at Boris: "Babs told me you attacked her first. Is that true?"

"Well, I might have smacked her a wittle…"

"'Wittle'," Barbara mocked him. Tabitha smirked alongside her.

"So, let me get this straight: You come barging into a club that you don't technically own," Sylvia uttered calmly, "hit the first person you see, and then expect them to turn over their club to you based on the fact that they built their club on your territory. That's what I've got. Am I right?"

He nodded.

"Cool..." She sighed. She looked at Oswald, who watched her with a little smile of his own, and said, "Well, baby. It's all yours. I have _no_ hand to play in this. Both sides of the story are there."

"You mean 'stowy'," Barbara giggled while Boris glared at her.

"We _really_ don't have time for this," Oswald said impatiently.

"He started it," Tabitha said contemptuously, to which Oswald glared at her.

"It's a lie," Boris insisted. "The cwub was built on _our_ tewwitowy."

"'Cwub'!" Barbara giggled. "What's a 'cwub'?"

"Cwub!"

"What's a 'cwub'!"

"Cwub!" Boris repeated, trying to enunciate but unable to get any further.

"What's a 'cwub'? I mean, can anyone understand him…"

Oswald impatiently stamped his foot ("Enough!") and Barbara, although she quieted down, still grinned broadly, ready to mock the next thing that came out of the injured gangster's mouth. Just adding salt to the wound—kicking the man while he was down, that kind of thing.

Sylvia sat on the couch beside Boris, who glanced at her uneasily. Seeing that she wasn't doing anything, Boris somewhat settled, although he didn't relax much.

"We will work something out," Oswald said calmly, looking at Boris, who appeared somewhat satisfied by Oswald's peer mediation, although the ladies didn't look that much into it.

Sylvia grinned widely; she always enjoyed watching her hubby work. This scene was no different.

Oswald turned to Barbara and said professionally, "Now, this is his territory. You built your club on his land. What are you willing to give him in return?"

Barbara looked thoughtfully at Oswald then she turned to Boris, who watched her with piqued interest as Barbara slowly took a cherry garnish out of her drink, provocatively sucked the fruit dry of any alcohol, and then placed the garnish on Boris' leg, with a cheerful "boop!", to which Butch smiled in amusement, Tabitha smirked, and Oswald looked like he might lose his patience.

He said pointedly, "That is not _helpful_."

"Are you seriously telling me you don't see what's going on here?" Barbara returned. She pointed to Butch, adding, " _He_ is behind this."

Oswald, Tabitha, Boris, and Sylvia glanced at Butch, who said incredulously, "What are you talking about?"

"He sent this _ding dong_ to squeeze us," Barbara said flippantly, "hoping that it'd send us back to you, so he could lord it over Tabby, ain't that right?" And she gesticulated to all parties respectively.

Oswald turned and looked at Butch dangerously.

Butch chalked it up to hilarity, saying, "That's c—that's just—that's crazy—that's just crazy! She was in Arkham, hello!"

"' _Hello_ '! So was _I_!"

Butch looked a little stumped after that.

Sylvia raised her eyebrows, looking at all of them, including Boris, with interest. This was turning out to be an entertaining show after all!

"Is that true, Butch?" Tabitha said curiously, looking at him.

Guilt was Butch's new look, and he cleared his throat in an attempt to make himself smaller. Boris looked all kinds of betrayed, while Oswald looked up at the ceiling, scoffing, "Unbelievable!". He took a few steps towards Butch, who could recognize that expression from a mile away; it read 'how dare you go behind my back…' After the fact, Oswald turned. He looked at Sylvia, nodded to her.

Sylvia clicked her tongue, pulled out her gun that sat on her hip, cocked the hammer back, and then blew Boris' brains out all over the couch. Meanwhile, Barbara and Tabitha grinned simultaneously.

"Run your club. But _just_ so we're clear." Oswald spoke directly to Tabitha: "The only reason _you_ are still alive is Butch. The moment he gives me the word, you're _mine._ Sylvia…"

Sylvia stood, pushed Boris' dead weight onto the floor, and grinned beautifully at the ladies before following Oswald out of the club.

"Boss—"

"Not a word, Butch." Oswald said, raising a hand and callously getting into the passenger seat.

Sylvia smiled sympathetically at Butch, saying, "If it's any consolation, I see why you did it."

"You hate Tabitha though…"

"Yeah, I do, with the burning intensity of a thousand suns, _but…_ I know the feeling of having the upper hand and since you have only one hand, I imagine that's all you really have left when it comes to that woman." Sylvia returned, patting his shoulder.

Appreciative of her sentiment, Butch moved to the back seat and tried to make himself seem small for the rest of the ride.


	22. A Soft Spot For Fish

Chapter 22: A Soft Spot For Fish

* * *

While Oswald chewed out Butch for going behind his back and causing unnecessary drama and frustration for him, Sylvia went upstairs to take a bath.

Water shot out of the faucet and while the tub filled, Sylvia undressed, lit violet and maroon tinted candles (lavender and rose petal scented, respectively), placing each on a golden circular plate around the bathroom, including the sink, and on the counters. As she struck the match, she idly admired the burning flame for its heat and beauty, a little pyro coming out before she quickly lit the wicks before the flame started creeping to her skin.

While she blew out the match, a pair of knuckles tapped the oak door.

Still dressed in her bath robe, but mindful of whomever was standing in the doorway, Sylvia glanced over her shoulder to see Oswald, who appeared less than merry about the recent events. Not that she could blame him; the whole thing that happened with 'The Sirens' and Mr. Boris had been completely unnecessary, and had all been a ploy for Butch to gain Tabitha's attention, even if it was a little underhanded and sloppy.

"Bath time came early," He cared to note as he closed the door.

Sylvia observed him, a little half smile reached the corner of her lips when she noticed just how haggard and frustrated he appeared. For lack of a better euphemism, the lecture he'd given Butch really did ruffle his feathers.

"It's only eight."

Oswald raised his eyebrows at her, and he glanced at the wooden little clock that sat on the counter just beside the sink, noticing that what she had said was a fact—he hadn't realized how much time they'd spent down at the night club! The whole night had been stolen away from them, it seemed.

"Come here."

Oswald heard her soft timbre and met her eyes; they beckoned to him.

He walked over to where she stood, and once meeting her by the side of the tub, Sylvia lifted her hands to his face, her thumbs softly caressing along his cheek bones; the tips of her other fingers gently massaged the back of his head.

"The night isn't over."

"What else is on your agenda?" She asked curiously, tilting her head slightly. "What could you _possibly_ have left to do?"

"I wasn't joking when I said I was going to pay a visit to your stray."

"You mean 'Demetri'."

"Yes, I was referring to him."

"Visiting hours are over."

"And you think that will stop me?"

"Of course not," Sylvia assured, as she lowered her hands from him to turn off the faucet. "But the hospital's security is fucking strict. You may be able to walk in with a machine gun and threaten to slit a patient's throat with a scalpel, but god forbid you want to visit someone past six o'clock. They'll just turn you away."

"No one turns me away."

"Well, _they_ will insist."

"Why do I get the feeling you're trying to protect him?"

"I'm not being protective by any means. I'm just being honest; the Gotham General Hospital staff are anal about visiting hours."

"I suppose you're right."

"I _am_ right. Now, stop fussing over your tedious agenda, and join me."

He smiled at her motherly tone, watching her turn from him so she disrobed and then stepped into the bath tub. She mumbled something he couldn't hear, probably how hot the water was, since as she submerged her lower half, her chest and neck became flushed with pink before him. Perhaps it was the temperature of the water…or maybe it was her modesty, realizing that she was bare naked in front of him while Oswald was still fully clothed.

He didn't really have to think twice about her suggestion, so he undressed, placing every article of clothing neatly on top of the counter as he did. It was his turn to blush when he realized he was standing in full nude in front of Sylvia…they'd been married for a time, and it was always an embarrassing fact that he could suddenly become so self-conscious when he stood in front of her.

That seemed to be a trait they both shared.

As he slowly sank in the tub, all of him for save his shoulders were submerged and hidden beneath the array of bubbles. Sylvia waded over to him, her legs straddling his as she sat on top of him, wrapping her arms around his neck, peppering him with a few soft kisses before reaching his lips.

Oswald returned every one of them.

"We don't get many of these moments anymore," She murmured once the kiss broke naturally. "Have you noticed that?"

"I have. Does it bother you?"

"It bothers me, but it's kind of necessary."

"Meaning?"

Sylvia shrugged and said softly, "With wealth and luxury comes the inevitable responsibility. Honestly, I miss the old days…"

Oswald frowned: "You mean, when you and I were still working for Fish?"

"I don't miss the verbal condescension," Sylvia said lightly, rolling her eyes as she thought of the times when Fish would roll out some apathetic musing about Oswald, being her nobody Umbrella Boy, and herself being 'only a barmaid'. "But I do miss the days when you and I went home, ate dinner, and didn't get any of this extra drama that came with being top dog."

Oswald considered this, and he sent her a small, understanding smile. Yes, he remembered those days, all right. They sat like this for a moment in silence: Her arms resting casually around him, her hands lightly stroking the nape of his neck, while he cradled her hip in one hand, the other delicately grazing over her lower back. Soft kisses in the silence.

"What are you going to do when you find Fish Mooney?"

"You know exactly what I plan on doing."

"She spares your life, and you shoot her dead?"

Oswald blinked, for the very fact that he was certain he heard something in her voice. What was it?

"I'm gathering from your tone that you disagree with that plan."

"It's not that I 'disagree'," She uttered quietly.

"Well, you're not in agreement with it, so one can only guess that you're on the opposite side of the fence."

"You and I both know that there isn't just one side of Fish. She's more complicated than what people realize."

"You'd prefer that she stay alive and torment us with her existence?"

"Of course not."

"So, what are you implying?"

"She spared you for a reason," Sylvia reminded. "Perhaps in her greater scheme of things, she doesn't want to kill you. Maybe she wants to…you know…impart some wisdom, or—"

"You think she wants to make an alliance?" He questioned skeptically.

"Well, is it so far-fetched?"

"Honey, after what happened with Delilah, Demetri—now _Fish_ above all people—I'm starting to think you have a soft spot for her."

"I'm _not_ getting soft. I'm trying to think out of the box—outside of my own fucking paranoia," Sylvia explained defensively. "Maybe she wants more than just to cut off my head and shoot you in the fucking face. Maybe after dying, she's realized there's more than just vengeance on the brain. Why come back from the dead, back to Gotham, just to settle the score? Fish can be petty, but she's more than that."

Oswald sighed again, but this one was more exasperated than skeptical.

He purposely moved Sylvia off him and said firmly, "I pushed her off a building, made myself the Penguin, and you shot her mother on stage just to prove a point. She doesn't want an alliance; she _will_ want to settle the score."

"How can you be so certain of that?"

"I know how she thinks."

"What—and I don't?"

"I was with her every day since I had started working for her. If anyone knows Fish, it would be me."

"And that makes you the subject matter expert?"

"Are we going to argue about this _now_?"

"There's nothing to argue about. You knew a side of Fish that I didn't, but I also knew a side of her that _you_ didn't have privy to know. We can agree to that, but to not even _consider_ the possibility that Fish isn't just out for some petty revenge is nothing like you."

"Are we even talking about the same person?"

"I'm just saying: try to consider that you may be thinking about this all wrong."

"Do you think I am?"

"No, but it's something to consider."

Oswald exhaled patiently, sinking into the water all but his nose and eyes as he tried to assuage his irritation with Sylvia's insistent remarks of Fish's possible innocence. There was no way that the Fish Mooney _he_ knew would want anything more than revenge for suffering all that he and Sylvia had imposed upon her.

After a moment had passed during which neither person spoke, Sylvia moved closer to him. He sat up when she did.

"I can't explain why I feel the way I do. I admit that Delilah and Demetri's betrayal have done something to me…made me soft, doubtful—whatever…but there _was_ a point in time when I would have done anything for that woman. Now, I know the moment you set yourself in her ranks that you were ready to push her out of Falcone's chain, but there was a time where I actually did love Fish." Sylvia gestured to herself, adding, "A part of me—however small and insignificant—still misses her.

"When she died, I was happy, because I knew that it would push you wherever you needed to go, but there was a part of me that died with her. When I heard that she was back…I don't know…I guess I was hopeful because maybe it's like a second chance? It's hard to explain…"

Oswald looked at her, listened to her. He could see her internal struggle with the reality of the situation. They spoke of Fish being complicated…Sylvia Cobblepot had her beat when it came to complication. Sylvia moved closer to him, hesitating before she sat on him again.

"Does any of that make sense?" She asked uncertainly.

"It does. However, I do believe you're blinded by the past."

"I'm nothing without my memories of her—the good, the bad…the ugly. I'm not saying ' _don't_ kill her' when you get the chance, but if there's the slightest part of you that doesn't shoot her on sight, then try to follow that piece. If not for Fish, and not for yourself, then do it for me, okay?"

Oswald nodded.

"If a part of me doesn't kill her instantly, I _will_ follow it. Just for you." He vowed.

"Kiss on it?"

Sylvia tenderly kissed him; he returned it, lovingly.

Then the kiss became harder, feverish. It was soft and steady like the ripples along the river bend, and in a matter of minutes, there were waves of passion.

Breathless whispers, desperate moans. Above the bubbles and the surface, Sylvia and Oswald were passionate lovers, tongues entreating, enticing. Below the bubbles, Sylvia's hips slowly gyrated, her swollen petals grinding against Oswald's hard, stiff cock.

"I'm horny as hell," She whispered, nipping Oswald's bottom lip, "but it's amazing how water makes it dry."

"You're telling me," He agreed, letting out a small laugh when she kissed his nose.

"I want to take this to the bed."

"By your lead, Pigeon."

Sylvia grinned from ear-to-ear, and she stood; the water fell from her shimmering body, the light of the lamps and candles gleaming off like highlights on an illuminated body of water. As breathtaking as Sylvia's wet, naked body appeared and as happy as Oswald could be to stare at it all day, he was anxious to shove her face down in the soon-to-be dampened sheets and comforters, and take her.

Sylvia grabbed a towel from the rack, drying off as well as walking to the bedroom, throwing it behind her; Oswald chuckled, catching it, and following her mannerisms. Stepping over the threshold of their master bedroom, Sylvia sat on the edge of the mattress, then hoisted herself into the middle of the bed, beckoning Oswald with a sly smile of her own.

Like a moth to a flame, he was magnetized.

"Do you want to close the do—"

Sylvia interrupted him with a passionate kiss, her hands caressing his face and eagerly subduing him.

"Fuck the door," She giggled. "They know not to come up here by now, if they know what's good for 'em."

She meant the staff, of course.

And she wasn't wrong; the staff didn't venture upstairs unless they were summoned. And they never were.

Oswald moved on top of her, already feeling empowered as she quickly wrapped her legs around his waist, her body pliant against his own. He felt a little smug about how her body was already thrusting against him, her thirsty cunt grinding against his stiff member, eager for friction.

Hands groped; fingers spread. Bodies were sheen with a mixture of sweat and dampness from the bath.

Oswald grabbed a handful of her hair, wrapping the locks around his fist twice, pulling back so her head followed the movement, her soft neck exposed to him. He pecked her flushed skin, licking her sweet spot between her shoulder and jaw line; he felt her shudder underneath him.

Her hips settled into a needy grind, purposely humping the shaft of his cock so he was forced to feel the dampness of her pussy, the noticeable swollen clit that longed for contact.

"You're a hungry one, aren't you," He breathed, but even as he said it, he couldn't hide his own desire.

When Sylvia shamelessly showed him just how much she craved his attention, it was hard to ignore her wordless pleas. What she wanted, she could speak; what she craved and needed, her body did the talking for her.

Unable to tease her any longer, Oswald moved inside of her; the head of his cock slowly sliding between the petals. Her soft moans became sudden needy whimpers. He watched her eyes close tightly, her bottom lip tucking between her teeth, as she felt every vein of his girth slide inside.

She craved speed; her hips grinding against him. Insistent.

"Easy, Pet." He whispered into her ear.

"Mm-mm!"

He grinned.

"Nice and slow."

Sylvia opened her mouth to protest; he grabbed the opportunity to silence her with his own.

He rested his weight on her, pinning her hands to the mattress on either side of her pillow; their fingers, interlaced.

He took his time, slowly moving in and out of her slick entrance. A few times, Sylvia would try to tempt him to go at a faster tempo, but he wanted to treasure this—her naked body, the way they were so close and intimate.

He had noticed, too, that their precious moments together— _alone—_ were, indeed, too few and far between. He didn't want to rush it.

When there was no sign of pushing the tempo, Sylvia relaxed and while she didn't push him to move faster, Oswald was content to feel her body relax into his pace.

"Good girl." He praised, and she beamed in the middle of their kiss.

Soft, slow, and tender.

Even as they tenderly kissed, Oswald could feel himself getting closer. Just as she was showing signs of reaching that climax. The muscles that gripped him contracted, and threatened to make him lose control.

" _Fuck_ …" He moaned.

Sylvia rolled her hips against his, and he felt that tiny numbing, electric shock that promised a strong orgasm to come. She lifted her head and eagerly nipped his jaw. Apparently, they were on the same page.

He quickened the pace, and as the pace became faster and harder, their sex became rougher. Oswald sat up, thrusting his cock into Sylvia so hard that her head hit the headboard a little too hard.

"Oh, god, are you okay?" He quickly asked.

"I'm fine, I'm fine!" She laughed it off, reaching up and bracing herself against it.

It didn't take long. In the next few minutes that passed, Sylvia was forced into an orgasm, and her pussy clenched down on him so hard that it made Oswald come right after.

Moans became soft sighs; breathlessness, panting.

Sylvia remained on her back, looking up at the ceiling as she smiled in bliss. Oswald lied down on his side, letting out a deep exhale as he smiled in the same way.

"Have I ever mentioned how much I love you?"

She smiled beautifully: "More times than I can count, but I don't mind hearing it again."

Oswald and Sylvia grinned at one another, shared one more kiss, and slowly fell asleep in each other's arms.


	23. Sylvia Meets Vale

Chapter 23: Sylvia Meets Vale

* * *

Sylvia meandered around The Flea.

When she normally visited the third-world shopping center, she had a mission. This time around, she had come to see Ivy Pepper…although, she didn't know why. Sylvia didn't have a certain agenda in mind when she approached the large, brooding guard, named Bole, who remembered her from the last visit—he quickly let her in without question.

Sylvia didn't even know what she would say to Ivy when she saw her. There was no one to spy on, no one to undermine, or people she suspected who'd turn against her anytime soon. While Demetri was probably a good candidate, he was still recovering in Gotham General after his exaggerated attempt to prove his loyalty to her—not that she didn't appreciate the gesture. Even now, Sylvia wagered Demetri would turn against her in due time, but for the moment, the hospital staff kept an eye on him. And that brought her to the most important question she needed to ask herself: Why the hell was she walking around The Flea, looking for her child-like spy if she had no work to be done, no money to be earned.

Hell, maybe it was because she liked Ivy, and she just missed talking to the kid.

It was strange, though.

She asked the Fences who marketed low-end products with outlandish sale prices whether or not they saw the redhead. Of course, when it came to these ruffian teenagers, they always wanted something for their valuable time, even if they couldn't offer any valuable information—Sylvia paid them for their shrugs and 'Don't know's, and continued walking.

It wasn't until she was about to leave before a teenager dressed almost entirely in leather seemingly fell from the sky line and landed on her feet right in front of her. Sylvia gave her a moment's startled gaze before realizing it was Selina Kyle.

"Nice entrance." Sylvia noted, smirking at her. "You have a flair for that, don't you?"

"I know why you're here," Selina said dryly, looking at her.

"Well, 'hello' to you, too."

"You're looking for Ivy, right?"

"Yes, I am. Do you know where she is?"

"I was kind of hoping _you_ would." Selina replied callously, although there was a flicker of something other than sarcasm in those eyes of hers. "I've not seen her for a while, you know. And I know she's been working for you."

"No. I'm sorry, I don't know where she is. She's been MIA for a while, then?"

"Yeah…"

"Do you think she's in danger?"

"Well, I wouldn't be asking some bird's wife if I didn't, would I?" Selina retorted unhappily, bringing her weight to one foot as she put her hands on her hips.

"Okay, look—I'm all about this sass of yours, but taking that attitude with me is not going to get you any answers, assuming, of course, that I even had them. I've not seen Ivy for a few weeks, young lady. And judging from _your_ tone, I'd say you have a better idea about where she is than I do."

Sylvia expected some backlash from the teenager, but instead, Selina looked overtly apologetic. She reeled back some sass, and she crossed her arms over her chest as though she was trying to defend herself from something emotionally traumatic. Feeling anything sort of sarcasm or cynical humor was probably too painful for someone as tough as Selina Kyle, but Sylvia noticed the smallest tinge of worry.

"Never mind." Selina said offhandedly, glaring at Sylvia.

"Wait—"

But Selina was already climbing two fire exit escapes before Sylvia could tell her to stop and tell her what might have happened to Ivy Pepper.

"Well, _shit_." Sylvia mumbled, watching Selina vanish onto the roof.

It seemed reasonable enough to say that finding Ivy Pepper was going to take more than just a trip to The Flea. If a ginger-haired orphan girl ended up in the obituary section of the newspapers…Sylvia sighed and headed towards the better side of Gotham to some of its more rundown apartments.

If she couldn't find a friendly face at The Flea (aside from Selina Kyle), she'd visit her brother, who—now and days—always had something baking in the oven when it came to adventures.

* * *

Jim wasn't a fan of catering to pop-ins. He despised surprises, especially the ones that came unannounced to his front door just as he was waking up in the morning. The knock that came just as he was slowly moving around his homely abode made his brain hurt and his eyes roll to the back of his head as he opened the door.

And there was Sylvia, wearing blue jeans and a white halter top. Her copper-red hair, which now extended down to the middle of her back, was pulled into a long braid which fell over her left shoulder. Immediately, he glanced down to see that she was starting to show, the smallest baby bump poking from behind her shirt.

Times were definitely changing.

"You didn't call." Jim said as he stepped aside so that she could enter.

Sylvia glanced around the messy, lived-in apartment.

Back when Jim lived with Barbara Kean, Sylvia could attest that Barbara was probably the cleaner, neater roommate. While Jim never had the flair for being tidy, she wasn't expecting _this_.

Newspapers littered the wood work of the living room floor; empty beer cans, crushed beyond all recognition except for the Brand name lined the kitchen counters, dining table, and even the coffee table in the living room. Clothes—probably just worn and not really soiled—were thrown over the back of the couch after having just finished doing a load of laundry…because what was the point of folding them and putting it back in the drawer, really. There were dishes piled in the sink—some were rinsed off before being added to the pile while others appeared to be a few days' old.

"Normally, you call before you pop up," said Jim as he closed and locked the door (the door knob, the dead bolt, and the chain lock). He watched her observe the environment within his living station, smiling to himself as he braced for that sisterly lecture.

"I didn't know I was coming until I showed up, honestly." Sylvia answered, surprising him when she didn't lecture him on hygiene.

"Well, it's nice seeing you, either way."

"Have you considered hiring a maid?"

"That costs money."

"So does an exterminator."

"Ha, you've got jokes." Jim rolled his eyes, but smiling in spite of her criticism. "I just made some coffee; do you want any?"

"No, I'm fine."

"No caffeine for the baby?"

"No, it's not that. I just don't care for it at the moment."

"Now, that's something I didn't think I'd hear in this lifetime or the next."

"I have something of an aversion to it." Sylvia explained as she leaned her back against the backend of his couch. "When I smell it, it makes me want to puke."

"If it's making you sick right now, I can toss it…"

"Don't worry about it. I'll manage."

He watched her curiously as he drank his cup of joe, standing with his back against the kitchen sink, noticing that she, in her own little way, looked uncomfortable. In hopes of no longer dragging out the silence, he said, "You're starting to show."

"Oh yes, that, I am." Sylvia said, rubbing her belly.

"Do I get to know if I'm having a niece or nephew yet?"

"I have an appointment next week. The doctors tell me that they're sure we'll get to find out during that time."

"That's exciting, I suppose?"

"Very much so, yes." Sylvia returned, nodding emphatically.

And then, for whatever reason, there was that painful silence, that _awkward_ uncomfortable transition. All that could be heard was Jim's occasional sip of his black coffee, and Sylvia's boot heels clicking on the tile of the kitchen as she walked to the table, noticing that he had drawn circles over headlines, detailing the timelines of recent monster sightings.

"I hear Penguin's put a million-dollar-bounty on Fish." Jim cited, glancing the newspaper that stated as such.

Sylvia glanced it over and said lightly, "That's a fact."

"I figure it is. Came from a few sources."

"Reliable sources?"

"They're just sources. I don't know if you'd call them 'reliable'."

Sylvia nibbled on the inside of her cheek, casually looking around before saying, "Jim…?"

"Yeah?"

"Why is it awkward talking to you?"

"I don't know…I was actually wondering the same thing." Jim said uncomfortably, looking at her.

"Are you jealous?"

"Why would I be jealous?"

"I'm having a baby." Sylvia said anxiously. "You were in my position…well, Lee was, anyway. But so were you. Maybe that's why?"

"I'm not jealous that you're having a kid," Jim forced a small chuckle so that what he said didn't come out as serious as it might have. "It's kind of _awkward_ that you're having one."

"I think all of this is awkward."

"What do you mean: 'all of this'?"

"You not being a cop, me having a baby, this apartment _alone_ ," She gestured to the kitchen. "I'm still surprised you've held off being a cop as long as you have."

"If it makes you feel any different, I'm happy."

"You're living like a bum."

"Well, it didn't take long for your criticism to come out, did it?"

"It's not a critique if it's _true_." Sylvia emphasized, poking the dishes in the sink, adding, "This is how you get a bug problem."

"Maybe I'm not the one with a bug problem."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that something is _clearly_ 'bugging' you." He said smoothly, putting his coffee cup down.

"Oh, fantastic. Puns."

"You came here without calling. You're uncomfortable around me. I'd understand it if you came busting in and saw me in a compromising situation with a woman, but I'm just drinking coffee. I'm the one living paycheck to paycheck, but you're the one that looks like you've been through hell."

"That's very flattering, thank you."

"I'm not trying to insult you, but it's true." Jim sighed patiently.

"I'm just tired."

"Of?"

"Of everything. I'm tired because of the baby stuff, but I'm tired in general. I'm always tired. We've not talked in a long time so I suppose you don't know the most recent thing to have happened."

"Which is?"

"Well, Delilah's gone."

"Delilah….?"

"My protege."

"Ah, the one that dresses like a Goth?"

"Well… _dressed_."

"She's gone-gone?" Jim questioned, eyebrows furrowing in concern.

"Yep."

"That's a shame."

"Not really. She had plans of killing Oswald and me, so it's a good thing she's gone," Sylvia returned flatly.

"Right after that Brittany girl, huh?"

"Yeah. I'm starting to think that the position itself is tabooed."

"The fact that you're telling me Delilah is 'gone-gone'…I'm to assume that she was 'disposed' of in some dark, dingy alley?"

"In not so many words, yes."

Jim drank the rest of his coffee, adding, "Well, she endangered your life, and my niece or nephew's. I suppose that in the end that's what would have happened."

Sylvia chuckled, "I can't believe I'm hearing what you're saying. You think she _deserved_ getting killed?"

"I don't know what I think when it comes to your people, honestly."

"Well, just so you know, it didn't end there."

"It didn't?"

"No, she had an accomplice."

"I'm guessing you figured that one out?"

"Yes, I did. Demetri."

"Do I know him?"

"I don't think you two have been officially acquainted, no, but it's safe to say that he's in the hospital as of this moment," Sylvia returned as she fiddled with a newspaper, looking it over but not reading any of it.

"Why is he in the hospital?"

"He opened his forearm with my switchblade."

Jim blinked, saying slowly, "And why on Earth did he do that, dare I ask?"

"To prove his loyalty to me."

"You asked him to do that?"

"I _told_ him to. It was either he did that or I blew his brains out."

"This conversation is getting too frank for my taste," Jim muttered as he poured another cup of coffee.

"He chose to hurt himself, Jim."

"It sounds like he didn't have much of a choice."

"Probably not, but I didn't twist his arm."

"No. He just carved himself up so you didn't kill him." Jim replied sarcastically.

Sylvia crossed her arms and said defensively, "Well, I hate sounding like the bad guy, but that's the reality of my work, Jim. If he was _smart_ , if he had an ounce of integrity, he wouldn't have teamed up with Delilah—he would have come to me when he found out that Delilah was conspiring against me."

"You're saying 'he would have', but why do I get the feeling you mean 'should have'."

"Because he _should've_ come to me," She emphasized, leaning over a kitchen chair, her hands on the back of it. "Delilah would have perished either way, but Demetri wouldn't be in the fucking hospital and I wouldn't have been put in the position of threatening my own staff."

"Sounds to me like all of this drama you've endured is self-inflicted." Jim said dryly, looking at her over his second cup of coffee.

" _Excuse me_?"

"You might want to change your management style if people are just betraying you left and right, Vee." Jim explained, unaffected by her flaring temper. "After a certain point, I figure you'd stop trying to cater to people who don't deserve your kindness and generosity, and stick with what you know: hardy, good, clean people..."

"You're referring to the GCPD? Help _them_ instead of people who—you know—actually _deserve_ it?"

"From what you've told me, Vee, the people who 'deserve' your help are backstabbing, two-faced, scruffy parasites who want nothing more than to wait for you to turn your back and—"

" _Okay_ , I get your point."

Jim shrugged and drank the rest of his coffee. Sylvia let out a deep exhale of frustration before she pinched the bridge of her nose in an attempt to isolate a headache from finding its way to her frontal lobe.

"Harvey Bullock could probably use your help. He's been having a whale of a time with back-up."

"Instead of telling me to go help him, why aren't _you_?"

Jim didn't give her an outright answer but his nonverbal response of 'meh' was enough for her.

"Well, at least it's not awkward anymore."

Jim cleared his throat, then he patted her shoulder, adding, "For what it's worth, I'm _not_ jealous that you're having a baby. In fact, I'm thinking that maybe you're jealous of _me_."

"Why would I be jealous of _this_?" Sylvia replied, looking at the apartment as a whole. "This place is like a termite's wonderland."

"I'm guessing Penguin's kept a pretty close eye on you?"

"Of course."

"And I've not seen you outside of your club or the mansion for weeks now."

"Well, yes but—"

"—Which leads me to believe that Penguin has become _very_ protective of you—"

"—What the fuck is your point, really."

Jim smirked.

"As happy and enthusiastic as you are about having a son or daughter, you're _very_ bitter about not being able to do things as you would normally—killing people, for instance. You've had to change all of that, haven't you? No more knife fights, or spark wars, no violence of any kind. You have a baby to look after."

"Wow, you said all of that _so_ smugly—you're enjoying this, aren't you?"

Jim laughed, "Honestly, Vee. I really am. For once, I don't have to worry about you because you're worried about yourself, for a change."

Sylvia let out a scathing noise, but Jim smiled sheepishly since he knew he was right.

There was another knock on the door. Jim looked at Sylvia; she looked at the door curiously, glancing at him just as suspiciously.

"Stay here." Jim warned, pointing to the kitchen.

She held up her hands in surrender, doing as she was told.

When he opened the door, Jim frowned. Sylvia recognized the woman from Oswald's impromptu press release at the GCPD station about Strange's monsters.

It was Valerie Vale, all wide-eyed and bushy-tailed so early in the day.

"Morning!" Vale greeted ironically. "Surprised to see me?"

Jim replied dryly, "Not really. What do you want."

"I have a proposition!"

"Not interested." Jim responded immediately, closing the door.

Vale was adamant though: "Oh _come on_ , think of it as a way of saying 'I'm sorry for handcuffing you to a car door!" And she pushed her way in.

"Except I'm not."

As Vale waltzed right in, she stopped immediately in her tracks when she saw Sylvia in the kitchen.

"Oh my goodness, I didn't expect you to have company," Vale remarked, grinning widely when she recognized her.

"You don't expect much of anything, do you," Jim mumbled, walking past her to join his sister in the kitchen.

Sylvia addressed Jim pointedly, "You handcuffed this woman to a car door?"

"Without my permission, mind you," Vale added with a mischievous glint in her eye.

"James!"

"It's not what it sounds like, trust me," Jim grumbled, rolling his eyes as he poured a third cup of coffee. This time, he added a shot of whiskey. "Fish Mooney was using her and the rest of the Gotham Gazette to track down Peabody."

"Peabody…?"

"Strange's assistant," Jim explained.

"Oh, right. Her."

"And," Vale added pointedly, "just as we were going to find her _together_ , he cuffs my hand to a car door."

"You would have gotten in the way," Jim reminded. He said to Sylvia, "By the way, Vee, this is Valerie Vale. Vale…this is my sister, Sylvia."

"No introduction needed for this one. Sylvia Gordon: juvenile delinquent since age 11. Worked for Fish Mooney as a barmaid and waitress, then for Salvatore Maroni, and, now, works for Penguin. Now, stop me if I'm wrong, but you're _married_ _to_ Penguin—so do you work _for_ him or _with_ him?"

"It varies from moment to moment," She replied coolly, as she languidly stood behind a kitchen chair, her hands clasped on the back of it. "You sound like you know quite a bit, Ms. Vale."

"I've done my research."

"But you don't know much more than what anyone else knows about me, so nice try."

Jim grinned widely, seeing Vale get shut down in a matter of minutes.

But that didn't stop the reporter from inquiring further: "You run 'Lean on Vee's', don't you?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Your brother calls you 'Vee'."

"Yep."

"Off the record, was that like a major 'eff you' to him to name a club known for serving criminals and hard-to-do workers?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"Amazing. Someone should really do a story on you."

"It wouldn't make best-seller, trust me."

"Well," Jim Jim sighed, "this has been fun, but if you don't mind, Vale—my sister and I were in the middle of a very important discussion before you—"

"So _this_ is where you live," Vale continued, looking around. "Anyone interested in a life of bounty-hunting should see this. Preferably wearing a hazmat suit—you don't _bring_ women here, do you?"

"All right…" Jim muttered, ready to ignore anything that would come out of this woman's mouth a minute after.

"Fish Mooney. Penguin's million-dollar bounty. I can help you get it."

"Why should I entrust you to help me when I have Vee."

"She doesn't know where Fish Mooney is either," Vale scoffed, glancing at Sylvia pointedly. "No offense, Mrs. Cobblepot."

" _None_ taken."

"A million dollars can buy you a whole new place, you know," continued Vale candidly, gesturing to the apartment. "Maybe a new car…more scotch" (she eyed the Irish coffee) "and even a nice suit. You know, unless you wanna just pow-wow in this termite wonderland."

"Hey," Sylvia chuckled. "That's what I called it."

"Termite Wonderland might be a good theme park," Vale said, agreeing.

"It might be, but no self-respecting ding-dong would profit from a place named after a bug."

"Unless it was spelled differently."

"Like T-E-R-M-I-G-H-T?"

Vale mused, "Original."

"Thank you." Sylvia returned, bowing her head slightly.

" _What's in it for you_ ," Jim said irritably towards Vale, although he sent Sylvia an equally irritated glare.

"A story," Vale answered.

"Really?" Jim and Sylvia responded simultaneously.

"It shocks you that I love my job and I wanna be good at it?" Vale addressed the two of them.

"Kind of. Why not bring her in yourself? Why give _me_ a million dollars?" Jim questioned.

"Unless you think your sister would go halfsies…"

Sylvia chimed in, "I don't want the million dollars. That'd be weird—my husband giving _me_ the bounty."

"Well, you work for him, don't you? Consider it a pay raise," Vale said cockily.

"If I wanted a pay raise, Ms. Vale, I assure you that I don't need to go on a man hunt to earn my keep."

"Oh, I'm sure you could earn it other ways—there's no question about that."

Sylvia sent her a leery glare, and Jim put his arm in front of his sister, if anything just to pull Vale's attention from her to him.

"Vee," said Jim calmly.

"Hmm?"

"I have a book you might be interested in reading. It's in the bedroom, on the end table. Go and take a look, would you?"

There wasn't _any_ book Jim had that Sylvia could possibly think she'd be interested in reading. But that wasn't the point, was it? Jim sent her a meaningful look—the 'I'm trying to help you out, now go, _please'_ expression.

"Sure. Why not."

She left the room.

Vale smirked.

"You're pretty protective of your little sister, aren't you, Gordon?"

"First things first." Jim said coolly, although his teeth gritted firmly as he approached Vale.

"Going to give me the protective brother speech? 'Don't go near your sister or else' kind of thing?"

"Something like that." He said sardonically with an equally sarcastic smile. "But mainly, I'm just going to give you a little warning. It's common knowledge that Sylvia has been known to be impulsive, reckless—"

"—She's rumored to have a killed a few people—"

"—Exactly, so with _that_ said, if I were in your position, I'd lay off with the antagonizing remarks, huh?"

"See, now if only Gotham could see this sensitive side of you…"

"Oh, good god—"

"So, how about it? A million dollars?"

"Aside from wanting a story, what's your other angle?"

"I don't have another angle."

"You're a reporter—you all are more bent than octagons."

"How flattering."

"It is what it is," Jim said, shrugging.

"Well, has it ever occurred to you that I'm just a bigger person than you?"

"Mm…"

"And…and I couldn't find Fish."

"So you lost touch with your source."

"I didn't lose touch with her," Vale insisted. "I just can't really find her. She has always found me."

"Oh, that's comforting."

"I like her though. She's very stylish. A teenager on the runway of a very leather-ish, rundown-ish theme."

"Jim! I'm not finding this book!" Sylvia's voice called from the bedroom. "HOW DO YOU FIND ANYTHING IN THIS FUCKING DUMP! IT'S LIKE AN ASSHOLE MARRIED ANOTHER ASSHOLE, AND THE TWO OF THEM GAVE BIRTH TO A SHITHOLE!"

Vale raised her eyebrows, and commented, "Colorful vocabulary."

"You should hear her when she's mad," Jim promised. "It only gets worse." Then he shouted, "IT SHOULD BE ON THE BED!"

"IT'S NOT ON THE FUCKING BED!"

"IT'S ON THERE, TRUST ME—THAT'S WHERE I LEFT IT LAST!"

"I'M NOT FUCKING BLIND, JACKASS! I CAN SEE THAT IT'S NOT ON THE—OH WAIT, NEVER MIND, I FOUND IT! IT WASN'T ON THE BED, IT WAS ON THE FUCKING DRESSER!"

Vale stared at him, almost stupefied to silence before Sylvia came out and held up a book that read 'Where's Waldo'.

"Seriously?" She stated in amusement. "This is a joke, right?"

"Kind of." Jim replied, grinning at her.

"Hilarious." Sylvia mused. She threw the book at him; he caught it, and she sauntered back into the kitchen.

Vale looked between the two of them with unbridled entertainment before she looked at Jim expectantly.

"What do you say? It's a million dollars."

"It's Penguin's money."

"So?" Vale responded carelessly. "A million dollars is a million dollars. I mean, stop being so damn lazy. It's your job, right? It's your specialty. You _find_ people. You're a bounty hunter!"

"What's the name of your source?"

"Selina Kyle."

"Hmm."

"You run into her when you were a cop?"

"Our paths have been known to cross a couple of times."

"Oh, that's great! So, you know where she lives."

"No, I don't."

"Don't _you_?"

Sylvia gave her a look and said monotonously, "Why the hell would I know where she lives?"

"You're the 'Lark'," Vale chuckled. "You know everyone and anyone who's under the line of integrity and diplomacy. Penguin's the General; you're the Lieutenant, who knows the name of all the foot soldiers, right?"

"You amused me earlier. Now, you're starting to fucking irritate me, Vale."

"She doesn't know," Jim told Vale hoarsely, glaring at her. "Remember our conversation earlier?"

"Yeah, not to antagonize your sister." Vale recalled. She grinned at Sylvia, saying, "Got some anger issues, Mrs. Cobblepot?"

"I'm going to punch you in your fucking face."

"Whoa, no, no, no." Jim coaxed lightly, pulling her back. "Easy, _easy_."

It wasn't until when Vale was on the verge of a violent crime that she actually noticed Sylvia's unearthly glow. And then she noticed the baby bump.

"Oh, that explains it." Vale pointed out. "You're pregnant—hormones are really driving you crazy, aren't they."

"You have **no** idea." Sylvia responded hotly.

"Vee."

"What? She's annoying as hell!"

"I know, but _don't_ punch her."

"Fine! I'll talk to you later." Sylvia said, pushing his arm away from her. "I'm leaving."

"Love you, Vee."

"Ditto."

As she left, Jim glared at Vale, who returned it with a look of innocence and reproachful naivety.


	24. Her Baby Girl

Chapter Twenty-Four: Her Baby Girl

* * *

In the days that followed, a few things happened: Harvey Bullock was somewhat taking charge while Captain Nathaniel Barnes was in and out of the hospital in recovery after being stabbed by the late Theo Galavan. Demetri Byrd was discharged from the hospital, and Sylvia went to the baby doctor to find out the sex of their unborn child.

While these things were probably irrelevant to one another, they _were_ relevant to Oswald's stress.

Unfortunately, for him, the Crime Families within Gotham had become so addlepated by Strange's monsters, including the knowledge that Fish Mooney was leading them, that they were messing up more often. Profits weren't showing; in fact, Oswald was led to believe that there were a few rats hiding in the belfry, trying to skim what they could off the surface before it was their time to be exterminated.

While Sylvia had been understanding of the role he needed to play, that didn't stop Oswald from feeling guilty for having to miss the grand moment the two of them had been waiting for. She had the news, of course—he would just have to hear the news later on in the day.

During said day, Demetri was discharged from the hospital. While Sylvia entrusted that he was a 'new man' after having witnessed his life flashing before his eyes in a matter of minutes, Oswald was beside himself. In fact, he was certain that Demetri was hovering in the grass until the time came to betray his sympathetic Patron…and they'd be in the same boat they were in once again except this time Demetri would succeed where Delilah did not.

Oswald instructed for Gabe to keep a _close_ eye on Demetri. For the moment, he was preoccupied with Harvey Bullock's GCPD not doing squat about Fish Mooney. He didn't expect them to find her, or even get close, but there was news circulating the underground about how Ethel Peabody had been kidnapped last night, and that the police were tipped off about some bank near Kane Sound being Fish's hideout.

He sat in the mansion, watching the media frenzy. While he earnestly awaited news of Fish Mooney's capture, one hand remained fitted around his cell phone, where he was waiting for Sylvia to call him and tell him she was on her way back from the hospital.

In a few minutes, a text message made his phone vibrate; he peered at the message Sylvia had sent him. It was simple: ' _Fish escaped. Going by GCPD. Love you_." Following her two sweet words was a small blue heart emoji.

Oswald frowned. Of course, the police let Fish escape. How _droll_.

He stood to his feet, buttoned the last two buttons on his dress coat, grabbed his cane, and with Butch tracking behind him, Oswald decided that he would make an appearance to the media once more. This time, he would not be so civil. This time, he'd make sure that every citizen of Gotham—not _just_ the police—would be after Strange's monsters. If it meant having peace restored in his empire once more, and a few days of quiet with his wife, Oswald would instill in the crowd some motivation to hunt down every one of those monsters and kill them all.

* * *

Originally, Sylvia had been heading towards the police station to pick Harvey's brain about how quickly Fish had escaped from their clutches. Eager to see the aftermath of Fish's escape, Sylvia drove her car alongside the few police cars that were parallel parked along the curb of the bank.

Swiftly, she looked around, and she spotted Harvey Bullock walking to his car, defeated. She called his name, and he turned to see her. There was little surprise on his face as he greeted her with an unenthusiastic smile.

"I told you I was able to help."

"I remembered our conversation."

"But…?"

"Look at you, Liv." Harvey said, gesturing to her figure.

"So?"

"You're pregnant."

"I reiterate: _So_?" Sylvia repeated, looking at him pointedly. "If you'd have listened to me _this morning_ , I'd have been in on what the GCPD was planning, and I'd have probably helped you get Fish."

"It wasn't just _Fish_ in there—"

"I wouldn't expect Fish to be the only one in there. Please tell me you were expecting others to be in there, because if you weren't…" She tsked, but she offered mercy when he leaned against his own car, looking at her with desperately tired eyes. "So, fine, forget Fish. You and your cop buddies managed to put a few other monsters down before she flew the coop."

Harvey looked at her and said unhappily, "What will Jim say when he finds out you're trying to get in on these dangerous missions. He'll probably skin my hide if he found out—"

"First things first. Jim _knows_ I'm trying to help you. Second, I'm a grown-ass woman and I can do whatever I want with or without his approval."

"I'd have thought having a baby would make you more docile."

"In some circumstances, it has." Sylvia admitted, and she inadvertently touched her belly with her hand.

"How's Penguin taking it?" He asked, but she wasn't able to answer his question as a large, brown van with dark tinted windows crept forward.

The moment it stopped; two misfits jumped out of the van. One was silver-haired, youthful while the other was dressed in black with a mouthpiece over her jaw. Quickly, Harvey put one arm in front of Sylvia, pushing her behind him protectively.

"Fish Mooney wants to see you," said the first.

Harvey moved to pull out his gun, but the young silver fox moved a lot faster, almost supernatural-like. She held the gun, pointing it at Harvey, who immediately was subdued as he said, "All right, all right!"

Sylvia started inching away, hoping they'd be more interested in Harvey so that she could flee, call Jim, tell him what happened. But the eldest of Strange's monsters—who in her defense appeared more human out of all of them—strode forward, grabbing Sylvia's arm.

"She'd _love_ to see you too."

"Great." Sylvia said, managing a calm smile although her heart skipped four beats.

Harvey grumbled under his breath, and Sylvia followed him (with the others striding) and they were forced into the large dark van without another minute to spare. Harvey and Sylvia were forced to give up their cell phones—god forbid they tried to make a desperate call to anyone they cared about.

As Harvey and Sylvia sat down on one side, they were met face-to-face with Fish Mooney, who smiled all too widely when she saw who graced her presence.

"Hey, Harvey." Fish greeted.

"Hey, Fish, how're you doing?"

"Not too good."

"That sucks," Harvey responded carelessly.

"And who do we have here," Fish all but drawled. She smirked when she recognized Sylvia on sight. "My, my, my…Hello, Sylvia."

"Hello, Ms. Mooney."

"I'm impressed already. You've not tried to hurt any of my friends, or _me_."

Sylvia didn't respond.

Perhaps she had been mistaken when she told Oswald not to kill Fish Mooney on sight. Seeing the woman now, Sylvia wanted nothing more than to place at least five-hundred yards between them.

"You know there's a lot of people out there looking for you," Harvey stated, in partial hope that Fish would be more drawn to his conversation than to stare at Sylvia.

"It appears that way, doesn't it," said Fish coolly. "I even hear there's a million-dollar bounty on my head." She pointedly smiled at Sylvia, who shrugged a shoulder. She added: "I need to find that bastard, Strange."

"Yeah, well, you know I can't help you with that."

"Oh, you _can_. And you _will_."

Fish leaned forward, kissed Harvey on the lips, and then a second later, Harvey had switched sides, saying, "I'll help you find Strange."

"Good boy." Fish cooed, smirking at him. She then turned to Sylvia: "You know. I think it's time we have a heart-to-heart right now."

"Absolutely not."

"Excuse me?"

"I've used that expression myself. You want a heart-to-heart? No. You want to rip _my_ heart out of my body and feed it to..." She glanced at their present company, all of whom were glaring her down. "Well, I don't think I have to say it."

"I don't want to kill you."

"Forgive me if I don't believe you."

"Why don't you believe me?"

"Well, I killed your mom. But…in my defense, I didn't realize that was your mother until _way_ after. Had I known—well, I would've probably killed anyone else."

"That's sweet. If you want to even the playing field," Fish drawled. "I could shoot _yours_."

"Fat chance of that happening."

"Why is that?"

"My mother committed suicide when I was nine," She answered apathetically. "And that's not a ploy either to make you think she's dead. I just found out this year, so…"

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Don't be."

Fish cocked her head to the side, almost amused by Sylvia's reaction. Then the woman noticed that Sylvia was holding her stomach almost too protectively. It didn't take long for her to realize her secret.

"My, my," Fish cooed. "I guess I know _now_ why you've not made any attempts on my life."

"Perhaps I just want to be civil."

"Civility? Don't be modest, child."

"I'm not being modest."

"No…" said Fish gently. She leaned forward; Sylvia, by instinct, retreated with her back against the van. "You have a little bun in the oven, don't you?"

"Does it make a difference?"

"Well, it certainly explains your docility."

"Perhaps I'm just fearing for my own life."

Fish laughed, "I don't think I've ever seen you fear for your own life. Not in a million years…it's always someone else you're protecting, isn't it, little girl: Oswald, your brother, your friends…even Harvey here."

"Ms. Mooney…"

"Don't insult my intelligence."

Sylvia felt very small when she was in the line sight of Fish's glare. Even after all these years, _that_ feeling never changed.

"Fine. You're right." She admitted quietly, looking down at her feet. "I'm pregnant."

"How far are you?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"I'm curious."

Sylvia lifted her eyes, and stubbornly returned, "But _why_?"

"Just indulge me."

When Sylvia didn't answer her immediately, the silver-haired young lady cocked the hammer back on the gun she was carrying, the barrel aiming at her. Fish glared at her, taking her wrist and lowering it so the gun no longer was directed at Sylvia.

"Four months."

The danger and callousness seen in Fish's eyes flickered, as though it nearly vanished. Then again, maybe Sylvia was getting a little woozy—all she could think about was the danger her child was in…and this time, she hadn't even _meant_ to put herself in this situation. It just literally happened!

For a moment, Fish's attention was drawn back to Harvey, who directed the van left and right—the driver (another one of Strange's monsters, or someone that had been manipulated by whatever Fish's power supposedly was) followed his instructions to a 'T'. Sylvia licked her lips uncertainly, even more so when she felt the baby cuddle 'closer' to her inside her own womb.

"Don't worry, sweetheart," Sylvia whispered, patting her belly. "It's going to be fine."

Fish glanced at her swiftly, then the van had stopped moving.

"What's happening? Where are we going? Why did we stop?"

"Just keep moving," the silver fox ordered, pressing Harvey's gun against Sylvia's shoulder. "And stop asking so many questions."

"I'd be asking _less_ questions," Sylvia retorted as she stepped off the back of the van, "if you'd tell me what the _hell_ I am doing outside of… _what_ is this fucking place?"

Fish grinned widely as she met Sylvia around the back. She took her hand, and Sylvia startled.

"It's where they've been keeping Strange." Fish explained.

"Oh…okay, then." Sylvia murmured, curious as to why Fish was holding her hand as they walked to the door just moments after Harvey had introduced himself to the soldiers guarding the entrance.

When talking didn't do the trick, Fish's lackeys put a bullet in each of them. Harvey looked less than thrilled, but walked inside with Fish and Sylvia, who was still trying to understand the nature of Fish's feelings for her.

What was Fish planning to do with her when all was said and done, really? She asked about the baby, and seemed more than inclined to be friendly. Despite the death threats on her mother's life, Fish had barely made any other threat to Sylvia, despite their adversarial past. And _that_ was what made this situation that much scarier.

After the events that took place where Hugo Strange had set a bomb to blow up half of Gotham because of what his monsters were capable of doing, he was arrested and kept locked away where no one except Capt. Barnes and Harvey Bullock were privy to know. Forget the fact that this man had changed Fish in more ways than one, but also had intervened in Sylvia and Oswald's marriage, resulting in a separation. even if it had only been temporary.

When Sylvia and Fish walked through the door, they were met with the doctor who was sitting inside something of a glass cube, wearing full white garb. He reminded Sylvia of a bald albino goldfish wading inside a small aquarium, whose only predilection would consist of writing formulas on the glass walls or swimming to and fro as he steadily went mad.

It was a fitting premise, if ever Sylvia had to come up with one detailing the future events in the doctor's life.

Upon seeing his guests (if one called them that), Hugo Strange glanced up from his papers and even had to do a double take. Slowly, he rose from his desk and just as cautiously approached the glass wall.

"Professor Strange," Fish said calmly. "You and I have some unfinished business."

Instead of fearful, Strange appeared nostalgic, seeing Fish Mooney, who was his own creation.

Sylvia remained glued to the wall farthest from the two as she crossed her arms and tried to appear invisible. Even while Fish hadn't made any threats on her life, who was to say that once Fish had finished with Strange that she wouldn't start?

As discreetly as possible, Sylvia looked all around for a phone. A phone, a letter…a fucking pigeon—any matter of contact that she could make outside of these walls so that she could alert either Jim or Oswald that she was in trouble. Alas, despite the loveliness of the interior that was the mansion, there seemed to be hardly anything.

 _Go fucking figure_ , she thought.

"Look at you," Strange said breathlessly. "You were my _greatest_ creation."

"Your 'greatest creation' is dying," Fish replied unhappily.

"What?"

"You're going to _fix_ me, Daddy. And when _that's_ done, you're going to make me an army. An army of people just like me, so that I can have this city _kneeling_ at my feet."

Sylvia muttered to Harvey, "She scares the shit out of me but you gotta hand it to her; she has ambitions."

He responded, glaring at her, "Shut up, Liv."

"But I can't," Strange told Fish sadly. "I can't fix you."

Fish looked ready to respond with all the hatred and bitterness in her soul but the humane monster who wore a mouth piece approached her dutifully, saying, "Fish. Cops. Lots of them."

Sylvia startled at the statement, and glanced curiously at Harvey, who returned her nonverbal question with a shrug of his own. Neither of them had been able to contact the GCPD as of this moment, and yet, _here_ they were, apparently swarming around the mansion.

"You have a few minutes to rethink your answer," Fish warned Strange. "I suggest you do."

She shortly left with her monster friends, one of which forced Harvey to go as well. As Sylvia began to follow them, Fish turned and quickly told the others to go on. Sylvia quickly retreated, stepping back a few paces until her back hit the wall with Fish standing in front of her.

"Ms. Mooney, I—" Sylvia began, although she wasn't certain what she was ready to say or do.

Fish put a hand on her face, gently caressing her jaw.

Like a mother.

Fish had attempted to use her own power on Sylvia as she had done to persuade Harvey to help her, but whatever her intention had been, it seemed lost on her. The woman had braced herself for the pain that would have surely accompanied her ability, but when it never came, her eyes—both her hazel brown as well as the ocean blue—gazed at her as though Sylvia was not the same woman that Fish had known all these years.

"You still care for me." Fish whispered, more shocked than reassured. "Don't you, Sylvia?"

"Well, my feelings about you _aren't_ simple, I can tell you that right now," Sylvia said with a nervous laugh, just as uncertain of what Fish might do next. "I mean, look at the facts. You tried to have my husband killed multiple times, not to mention my brother…and myself." (She knew she was rambling but she couldn't stop herself due to her anxiety.) "You stabbed my husband's hand with a fucking broach pen, but then I killed your mom, so you know, I guess we're kinda even. But again, in _my_ defense, I didn't know she was your mom, not until someone had told me. Then you died—you know that first time—but came back to life, _somehow_ , and I thought you were dead but I guess you never were…held up in some strange warehouse—I suppose that's how you have two different eyes now—but alas, never really dead. _Then_ I thought we were even—you know, you go after us, we go after you—but Oswald pushed you off a building…I'd love to say I'm sorry for that, but after what you did to him, I can't say that. I thought that was the end of that, but then you came back to life, and that's—I'm still trying to figure out how _that_ happened….now that I th-think about it, I guess that's why you're here talking to Strange and stuff. I thought you'd settle the score and kill me too, but now I'm just trying to figure out why you're like this. Like _this_...like—"

The hand that wasn't caressing her face lifted to silence Sylvia's rant. Sylvia stared at Fish, waiting for the slap or some kind of punishment for all these years of doubt, betrayal, what-have-you, but it never came.

"I have an ability," Fish told Sylvia quietly. "To make people do what I want without use of force or violence."

"Yeah, I saw that in the van with Harvey…"

"I've had to use it often."

"I could see why."

"But not with you."

"Pardon?"

Fish caressed Sylvia's face with both hands now, and Sylvia protectively shielded her child from whatever might come later.

"I just tried using my ability with you, and…"

"If you're going to kill me, Ms. Mooney. Could you do it without the blather?"

"Are you afraid of me?"

"Yes." She admitted, nodding emphatically.

"Are you afraid that I might kill you?"

"More than ever."

"I wouldn't kill you." Fish said lovingly.

That's right… _lovingly_. The words that came out of her mouth almost sounded like she was hurt by Sylvia's assumption.

"You're my baby girl. And I've never been prouder of you."

Sylvia blinked.

"I shot. Your _mom_. Oswald threw you over a _building_. You should want to kill me…"

"But I don't want to do that. I've seen how much you've grown…and look at you now. I've seen how people respond to your name _alone_ …and I could not be prouder of my baby girl." Fish cooed, grinning at her. Doting.

"Wow…" Sylvia muttered. "Honestly, I was expecting anything but _that_."

"Yes. I can be quite unpredictable."

" _Fish_!"

Hearing her name, she sighed and patted Sylvia's shoulder, saying, "Excuse me. I have a few things to tend to. Do be a dear, though, and watch _him_."

Sylvia nodded and watched Fish leave to take care of the cop situation.

She smiled at Hugo Strange, who watched her from behind his glass barrier.

"So, we meet again," sighed Sylvia, eyeballing him carefully. "If I had a comfy arm chair, I'd sit down, ask you a few questions about your childhood and then it would be my turn to ask 'how does that make you feel'."

"Mrs. Cobblepot, I can assure you that allying yourself with Mooney will be one of your most tragic mistakes."

"May be." And she didn't say anything else after that.

* * *

Jim knew that Harvey had been kidnapped, especially when after the cop didn't answer his phone or his pager. And when Sylvia didn't answer her phone either, the plot thickened and his worry increased tenfold. After telling Barnes, the police were sent to the mansion; it was Fish's only logical step that if Peabody was unable to help her, then she had to go straight to the source.

As the cops swarmed around the mansion, Jim headed the team to the front entrance, along with Barnes who stood there as well, ready to pool the team inside to rescue their brother. Jim's phone started going off, and he recognized Harvey's number. Barnes quickly grabbed it, and questioned the caller.

Fish's voice came out, clear as a bell: "Oh, he's fine. But this ain't Harvey."

"I want to talk to him."

"Sure." Fish returned reasonably.

Barnes and Jim waited on the other line, and heard Harvey's voice: "Hey, Cap. How are ya? Sorry."

Jim said quietly, "Ask her if she has Sylvia."

"Why would she have—" Barnes growled.

Fish must have heard them because she said lightly, "Sylvia Cobblepot? Or as the papers call her: 'Lark'. Oh yes…I have her too. We've just been having a nice girl talk."

Jim frowned; he and Barnes exchanged worried glances.

"You have one chance, Mooney," Barnes spoke to her on the phone. "If you let them go, you might just make it out of this."

" _Chump_. You're speaking to a dying woman, which _severely_ limits your negotiating position. So, here's how it's going to go down. One cop comes within twenty feet of this place, Harvey _and_ Sylvia—as much as I love them—will eat a bullet. I'm assuming Gordon is there with you?"

Barnes glanced at Jim, who returned the surprised reaction.

"Yes, he is." Barnes said quietly.

"You'd be sure to let him know that while I'm _not_ the monster the papers or Dr. Strange have made me out to be, I do _not_ want to do it but I will eliminate all of whom is necessary in order to get what I want. Even if that means killing Sylvia _and_ her unborn child. Now, I don't _want_ to do that, so please, don't make me."

The worried look that framed Jim's face became one of protection and vengeance. Fish threatened his best friend's life, his sister's, as well as the life of his unborn niece or nephew…now _that_ was inexcusable.

And apparently, the woman hung up.

Barnes appeared defeated.

"What's going on? How was Bullock?"

"LISTEN UP!" Barnes shouted, gathering the attention of every nearby cop. "I want a full perimeter! Snipers on every corner! Mooney does not make it out of this! Understood?"

Everyone agreed while Jim was beside himself. He caught Barnes' arm, saying, "Captain, you cannot just leave them there!"

"You think that's what I'm doing? I'm just not charging through the front door so that he gets killed. Now, I'll remind you: you are no longer a police officer. If you get in my way, I'll have you arrested!"

And then the pressed arrived to which Barnes let out a derisive groan.

* * *

Oswald sat in the mansion, still waiting for Sylvia's call…but the media struck an interesting query.

Butch stood behind him; his hands lazily rested on the back of Oswald's chair as he nonchalantly looked on.

On the screen was a woman who stood amongst many others trying to break through the perimeter of cops, as she continued her report: "We are standing outside the mansion and preliminary reports are that wanted escapee from Indian Hill, Fish Mooney, has barricaded herself inside and is holding a hostage…"

Oswald released a satisfied sigh, saying, "Here it is, Butch. She's finally cornered. Like a _rat_."

"Yeah, but what are you gonna do?" Butch asked calmly. "The cops are already there."

"The GCPD is _not_ Gotham, and Gotham listens to _me_."

As he stood and prepared to leave, Butch cleared his throat and said warily, "Boss, you might want…"

" _What_?" Oswald questioned, but he turned to look at the television once more, and realized what Butch was unhappily looking at.

The reporter had continued: "Fish Mooney, an escapee from Indian Hill, has reportedly locked herself inside the mansion where currently Hugo Strange has been hidden away. My sources have reported that Fish Mooney has not only taken one hostage, but _two:_ they are Harvey Bullock, one of GCPD's detectives, and one of Mooney's older associates, Sylvia Cobblepot."

Oswald quickly turned off the television, and he said promptly to Butch, "Come, Butch. It's time to round up our friends."

* * *

Sylvia meandered around the small room, idly glancing over the paintings that were nailed to the polished walls. While Strange had originally tried talking to her with a vague attempt of helping him escape, his efforts were lost on her.

She approached the glass, and said calmly, "Strange, while Oswald was put away, you were not helpful one bit. In fact, from what I've gathered, you intercepted the letters that he was sending to me and I, to him, with some half-pint idea that he would be fully rehabilitated and would no longer want or need me. Was that a goal of yours?"

Strange said lightly, "Your husband was sick—"

"So is half of Gotham, what's your point?"

"Mrs. Cobblepot, I had no intention of separating you and your husband. I knew that with distance, there would be a—"

"'Distance makes the heart grow stronger'?" Sylvia recited, smirking at him. "Please. With all your diagnoses and therapeutic knowledge, I was hoping for a far more interesting excuse than that little tripe. Geez…how exactly did you get your fucking degree?"

"It has worked in the past for many patients."

"Did any of _them_ want to kill you?"

"Well, some, but—"

"If the outcome is the same, I'd probably try to go in a different direction. Look at me, for instance. Most people follow me and I don't have to offer them money, jewels…therapy." She made a scathing noise. "In fact, they seem to be consistently loyal without me ever even trying."

"If that's the case," Strange said darkly, "You would have an army at your disposal."

"Well, not _every_ follower has honest intentions of staying that way. You get a treacherous scoundrel from time to time. Them's the breaks."

"And yet, you believe the people you have are loyal to you."

"For the moment, yeah. One apple spoils the bunch…but I've acquired many faithful subjects."

"Oh yes, and not just from the criminal pot. So loving as your followers are, they've given you a name. A name, dare I say, that even the police officers and the news reporters use."

"Yes, a name," Sylvia returned. "It's not a name that I made up or even claim, but it seems to work."

"Oh, _yes_. 'Lark'. The guards and soldiers _here_ have even commented on its subtle appeal."

"I don't let it go to my head."

"Of course not. Of course not. You've always had that chip on your shoulder, the thing that keeps you down-to-earth; it's what attracts your followers, perhaps that, and your unmentionable power to subdue the one authoritarian figure that everyone in Gotham truly fears."

Sylvia leaned against the wall, saying, "You're doing it again. Talking out of your ass."

"Perhaps," Strange drawled. "But let's be honest, shall we? While people in Gotham believe that the Penguin rules with the iron first, is the 'King of Gotham', those who are more perceptive know the truth."

"What fucking truth?"

"You're the woman behind the man," He said with an ironic smile. "If anyone wants to get to Penguin, they merely have to get to _you_. Or, soon enough, your child. He is no more a god than you or I, and if anyone wanted to bring him down, all they'd have to do is seek you out, eliminate you entirely, and then the king would crumble."

Sylvia glared at him.

"Or maybe," sighed Strange as his eyes twinkled. "Perhaps it goes both ways. A double-edged sword, to say. If someone went after Penguin, eliminated his existence, the _queen_ would fall. Yes, I daresay that while your marriage has been a mutual symbiotic relationship—perhaps borderline commensalism—I imagine that if one was left without the other, it would result in self-destruction. As strong as you are, as tough as your mind is, it's rather tragic."

Sylvia approached the glass, ready to slit his throat despite how accurate his acclaim was. That was until Fish sauntered back into the room, glancing between the two with mild interest.

"Is everything all right?" Fish questioned gently.

Sylvia glanced at her and muttered, "Fucking peachy." She glanced when the others didn't follow, asking, "Where's Harvey?"

"He's with our friends, keeping the others in line."

"Are the police going to be a problem?"

"Not for _me_. No."

Well, that was hardly reassuring, wasn't it? By her statement, the police weren't a problem for Fish, but they'd become a problem for herself…that was easiest to see.

"Where were we…?" Fish drawled as she climbed into the glass cube. And Hugo Strange looked even less inclined to antagonize Sylvia.

"Believe me," said Strange sincerely. "If I could fix you, I would. I think of you as one of my own children. But I can't."

"So, what am I supposed to do? **Give up**!?"

"Do you not understand what you are? What you represent? You are the first of a new generation. A new Eve."

Clearly, that wasn't the answer Fish wanted. She looked up at the ceiling for a moment in thought, glanced at Sylvia, who was in all honesty uncertain what to do with herself. Fish steadily approached Strange, who remained bravely still.

"You know I owned a club once," She said carefully. "Ran protection on the side. Every first of the month people would pay me. Every once and a while, someone would always come up short and they'd say, 'Mooney, I don't have the money.' 'Mooney, I need more time.' Then, they would cry and cry. Wouldn't they, Sylvia?"

She nodded, unable to suppress a small little smile. Back when she actually worked for Fish. Woke up in the morning and actually looked forward to working for the woman simply because there was always something to see, and frankly, because the woman was a sight to behold at any point of the day. And the memory made Sylvia smile, but it was also sad; look how far they'd come from that point. Look, indeed.

"Then I discovered," Fish continued darkly, "that when I squeezed them, and squeezed them, and _squeezed_ them. They always had more."

Sylvia's heart fluttered. Maybe it was out of pity for Fish. Or maybe it was because the child inside kicked her bladder and the movement made her both want to physically piss herself as well as just leap for joy.

"You are going to fix me," Fish said tearfully. "Or I swear to god, you will pray for your death—"

"Fish!"

"What are the cops doing now?"

"It's not the cops," said the woman with the mouthpiece, who glared at Sylvia. And Fish glanced at her as well, knowing what her friend meant.

Sylvia followed Fish and the woman towards what would be the living room area. Sylvia glanced out of the window to see that on top of the officers from the GCPD, Oswald was leading a mob of people, all of whom were carrying pitch forks, torches (how cliché, she thought), baseball bats, shovels, and an array of other blunt objects. Presumably, they'd storm the castle and kill all of whom were threatening their livelihood.

Perhaps it was because Fish Mooney was inside and Oswald was tired of waiting for someone to bring her to him. Or maybe, he'd listened long enough to the news and discovered that along with Harvey Bullock, she was the other hostage, and that's why he'd led a mob to the GCPD's operation.

Maybe it was both.

"Sylvia…"

She turned around to see Fish Mooney watching her with avid amusement.

"Oswald certainly knows how to transform a small event into a standing ovation, doesn't he?" Fish said coolly.

"It's one of the things I love most about him."

"Your honesty might get you killed, baby girl."

"No more than what a lie would do for me."

Fish chuckled, "Also true. A prince coming to rescue his princess…it would be romantic if it wasn't inconvenient."

They rejoined back in the room with Hugo Strange, who watched the two women with unease. There was some movement in the other room, and Fish sighed, opening the double doors to see that yet another of Sylvia's regular heroes had ascended upon the situation.

"Bring him in." Fish said lackadaisically.

Sylvia didn't know to whom she was referring until Jim came striding inside, looking expectantly at her.

"Jim!"

"Hey, Vee." Jim greeted with a small smile. "Harvey."

"Jim, what the hell are you doing here!" Harvey responded.

"Saving you—I thought that was obvious."

"Oh well, thank you."

"Why are you here, Gordon?" Fish questioned. "Did your little cop friend send you inside to talk me down? Get me to turn myself in, because that's not going to happen."

"I came on my own. I want only these two."

"If you take these two, I haven't any hostages. But, now that I'm thinking about it, you've given me three."

"Barnes won't see it that way. You still only have one."

"Technically, she has four." Sylvia muttered.

"That's right…" Fish cooed, grinning at her. "You, Gordon, Harvey, and that sweet little thing." She glanced at Sylvia's stomach, then turned to Jim pointedly.

"I've been a pain in Barnes' side," Jim explained. "If you take me out, he'll see it as a godsend."

"True."

"And he doesn't care much for Vee either."

"Also, true."

"Then you better give me one good reason," Fish threatened, "Why I shouldn't let my friends kill you."

"Mooney." Sylvia softly pleaded.

Fish glanced at her with considerable understanding then turned to Jim, waiting.

"I can get you out of here."

"And how exactly do you plan on doing that, considering this whole place is surrounded." Fish responded practically.

"That's my problem. I get you out of here, I get Bullock and my sister."

"Your sister would be great leverage for me, actually. I might just keep her."

"There's danger to come if you do that."

"You get Harvey, at least. I get this one," Fish said, gesturing to Strange, who began to protest.

"Deal." Jim replied.

"'Deal'? Are you telling me you're not even going to _try_ and save your sister?"

"Sylvia never needs to be saved. She can take care of herself, as she has frequently told me in the past," Jim stated. While his tone was serious, there was a small proud little smile daring to tug at the corner of his mouth. He continued cautiously, "If I were you, Mooney, I'd be thinking of a way to get out of range once you're out."

"Oh really? Why is that?"

"Oswald is _very_ protective of her," Jim said coolly, tilting his head in his sister's direction. "You're not just taking his wife hostage; you have his entire family with you. You already have a bounty on your head, but now you've put a target on your back."

"Hmm. Very well. I'll take it under advisement. You have two minutes."

Jim stepped away to place a call. Meanwhile, Fish looked at Sylvia, who watched her cautiously.

"Your brother isn't as protective of you as he once was," Fish noted.

"You don't know him as well as I do." Sylvia answered lightly.

"If he doesn't deliver…"

"He _will_ deliver. Why even give him the chance to do what he said he would do if you don't even believe he'd do it?"

"When a woman is desperate, she's liable to believe anything." Fish said quietly, and the desperation in her own voice made Sylvia's heart sink into her stomach.

Jim got off the phone, came back into the room. Just as he did, Marv, one of Strange's monsters who could also reverse a person's youth, came through the door with quick report: "The mob has broken through the front door, but the back way is clear. We can make it through the woods."

"Time to go," Fish declared. She grabbed Hugo Strange, and turned, addressing Harvey, "No hard feelings."

"Fish, _screw_ you."

"Fair enough."

Marv started to reach for Sylvia to be sure that she came along with them. She wrenched her arm away as she said, "Don't you touch me! I can fucking walk on my own!"

Marv took her feisty comment to heart, pulling his hands away from her, but he herded her with Fish out of the doors.

"Are we really just going to let Fish walk out with Liv!" Harvey said incredulously.

Jim returned, "I made a deal with Penguin."

"Oh, _that's_ comforting."

"Doubt, now?" Jim said reproachfully. "Penguin annoys the hell out of me, but if there was only one thing I can count on him to do, it's protecting Vee."

* * *

Sylvia strode behind Fish, Hugo Strange, and Marv, glancing behind her as the mob burst through the doors with heat in their eyes. They were damn near past the clearing before all four of them heard the click and cock of a gun. When she turned, she saw Oswald standing there, cane in hand; the other held the gun, which was pointed at Fish, who seemed awe-struck.

"Go!" Oswald snarled at Marv, who glanced at Fish indicatively. "Sylvia, get away from her."

Fish nodded her head and Marv quickly disseminated, while Sylvia stepped away and moved to Oswald's side, not before giving Fish a sympathetic side glance.

He looked her over for a moment before he turned to address the quarry.

"That's better." Oswald said with a smile. "Just old friends."

"Oswald…" Fish began.

" _Don't call me that_! My name is Penguin. Do you have any idea how long I've been looking for you? How long I've been waiting for this very moment?"

"Mr. Cobblepot…" Strange began.

" **Quiet**!" Oswald ordered.

"So, this is how it ends?" Fish said ironically. "I spare your life, and you shoot me dead in the woods like an animal?"

"Pretty much, yes. But I will admit. That night under the bridge stayed with me. Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why didn't you kill me? I have gone over that night a thousand times in my mind and it doesn't make any sense. Why didn't you kill me—I would have killed you in an instant."

She didn't respond.

"ANSWER ME!" Oswald shouted.

"Because you're mine."

Sylvia glanced at her curiously.

"You were _my_ Umbrella Boy." Fish uttered softly. "Remember? You rubbed my feet when they were tired. And now look at you, the terror of Gotham. Everything I've done with my life, possibly the best thing was turning Oswald Cobblepot into the Penguin. I couldn't destroy that. Ask him" (Fish indicated Strange.) "He understands what it's like to bring something into being…as you will know soon enough. It is a part of you…forever."

Oswald looked like he was on the brink of an emotional wave. His cheeks were damp from the few tears that had rolled down his face. Sylvia touched his wrist. Oswald glanced at her, then to Fish.

He pulled himself together and said calmly, "Good-bye, Fish. Don't come back."

She didn't look the gift horse in the mouth; she nodded, then left with Strange, running past him. Sylvia watched after them for a moment, then stood in front of Oswald, a hand caressing his jawline while the other rested on his shoulder. He smiled at her; she smiled back.

They walked back to the mansion where a pile of monsters as being burned.

"Quite the riot you've started, Mr. Penguin." Sylvia observed.

"It was easier than I thought it would be. Anger is an easy emotion to manipulate."

"It's going to be a shame."

"What is?"

"The monsters being gone," said Sylvia lightly. "My brother might have to go back to the Force."

"Is that a bad thing?"

Sylvia watched as the crowd approached Oswald, looking like they would worship the ground on which he stood.

She returned idly, "I can handle him getting in trouble when he's a police officer a lot more than when he's a bounty hunter. Of the two evils—despite how insufferable he can be holding it— I'd rather him have a badge."

Oswald chortled. The mob—now a friendly, raucous crowd—picked Oswald up and starting cheering, chanting his name over and over again. Sylvia stepped out of the lime light, smiling in spite of herself.

Jim met her on the sidelines.

"I thought you hated Fish Mooney." He stated as he grimly watched the crowd celebrate his brother-in-law.

"I thought I did too."

"So, what, you like her now?"

"I'm not sure."

"Do you hate her?"

"I'm not sure," Sylvia repeated. "She's a complicated woman, Jim. There's no one way of feeling about her."

"That's funny."

"What's funny?"

"You and Fish Mooney have a lot of similarities that way." Jim said calmly, looking at her while he crossed his arms and leaned against one of the cop's cars.

"What can I say? She helped mold me into what I am today. You have to remember, Jim—at one point, I _was_ her baby girl…seems only fitting that I'll soon have my own."

Jim startled, looking at her with wide eyes: "You mean…?"

"That's right. I'm having a girl." She answered, smiling widely.

Jim whistled low, smiling at her. He continued watching the crowd cheer Oswald, chanting the man's name over and over.

He sighed, shaking his head, saying, "This is too much for me. I might go back to the Force."

"I was wondering when you were going to do that."

"Barnes asked me to come back."

"That's noble of him."

"He'd rather me be a pain in his ass that he can control rather than being one where he has no jurisdiction."

"At the rate you're going, you'll give him hemorrhoids."

"Colorful, Vee."

"Well, you're a pain in Barnes' ass no matter if you're a cop or not. You'll always be that hemorrhoid that won't go away, no matter how much cream he uses. He can always get a tire to sit on, I suppose."

Jim stared at her, then burst out laughing.


	25. Oswald's Threat

Chapter Twenty-Five: Oswald's Threat

Disclaimer/Author's Note: I apologize for my absence. Got burnt out and needed to take a mini-vacation from the story, but now I'm back. Thank you for your patience, lovelies. Much love! Muah!

* * *

It was around 5 pm, nearing dinner time. Oswald had every intention of making tonight a 'quiet' one. After all that had happened with Fish, including Sylvia being taken hostage for a time, a quiet dinner seemed more than warranted.

That thought left preemptively when he stepped inside the living room to see Sylvia sitting on one end of the couch; on the next cushion was a guest sitting right beside her. Her guest was a young man who wore heavy bandages on his right forearm, the outcome from an incident where he'd proven his loyalty to her by means of bloodshed.

Seeing the person who had teamed up with Delilah in an effort to destroy everything in his life sitting in the same room, Oswald's temper flared as he entered, glancing between the two of them before he called attention to himself.

Sylvia and Demetri, hearing him, turned their heads in his direction. While Sylvia had little to no response, Demetri quickly stood, looking ready to answer for whatever sins he had committed as Oswald rounded the couch, placing an appropriate amount of distance between them.

While glaring at Demetri, Oswald addressed Sylvia: "Is everything all right, dear?"

"Everything is fine, Oz. Demetri was discharged from the hospital."

"Yes, sir, I'm—"

" _Quiet_. I wasn't talking to _you_ , was I?"

Demetri shook in his jeans, looking between the two Cobblepots—at one with discomfort and fear in his eyes, at the other with the hope that Sylvia would defend him, vouch for his efforts and his reborn loyalty.

In his own right, Oswald was not an intimidating figure, but he was dangerous. Even though he stood in front of Demetri, bearing an inch or two less in height difference, no gun raised, his glare was enough to make Demetri fold on sight. Oswald had beaten the shit out of people for giving him bad news when he was already in a sour mood…why would Demetri's death warrant anything different.

"Sweetheart—"

"Sylvia, I'm going to have a frank discussion with your staff member. Whether you are present for that or not is irrelevant to me; you're more than welcome to attend if that's your pleasure, but I'm going to have a _chat_ with Mr. Byrd, regardless of what you decide. I doubt I have to explain the nature of the discussion to you." Oswald said her calmly, although the smile that reached his mouth was one of obvious dislike for the man before him.

"A heart-to-heart?" Sylvia said amusedly. She clasped her hands together, adding, "I'm starting to become a fan of _those_."

"Miss Sylvia…" Demetri stammered nervously.

Sylvia patted his shoulder reassuringly as she stood, saying, "You'll be fine, kid. Oswald, I'm going to talk to Olga in regards to dinner plans. Is there anything you'd like in particular?"

"You know me well enough, Pigeon. Surprise me."

"I'll surprise with you nothing. How would you like that?"

"That doesn't sound very pleasant."

"But it _would_ surprise you, no?"

"I'd say it would."

Sylvia approached him, her hand gently caressing his arm while he noted her open display of affection in front of Demetri.

She said lovingly, "I won't surprise you with nothing, but I _will_ think of something."

Her humor earned herself a small smile from Oswald which disappeared as soon as she left the room to speak with the housemaid.

He looked to Demetri, his eyes sizing him up.

"Have a seat, Mr. Byrd."

Demetri slowly—albeit nervously—took a seat while Oswald sat in the armchair adjacent to him, leaning his cane against the right arm. For a long time, he didn't talk. Instead, he watched Demetri, questioning –what was in his opinion—Sylvia's debilitating logic for keeping this eighteen-year-old traitor alive.

A small random thought occurred to him, something out of the blue as though it might have been buried beneath his bitterness towards Demetri. While staring him down, Oswald had to admit (perhaps only to himself) that Demetri was a good-looking fellow.

Bright hazel brown eyes, chocolate-brown curls, and an impressively lean, muscular figure to boot. While Sylvia's stray regularly appeared confident in his own brand, Oswald noticed that in _his_ presence, this youth was reduced to a submissive, fearful pup. It was almost flattering…seeing how afraid Demetri was of him.

"This cane was a gift, you know," Oswald said suddenly, tapping his fingers on the handle of his assisted walking device.

Demetri flinched when Oswald abruptly spoke.

"It's…it's _nice_." He cared to note, looking at it for the first time with pretend interest.

"It was a gift from Sylvia."

"She has good taste."

"On a contrary, we vary greatly on what piques our interest. For instance, I'm a man who enjoys the finer things. To her credit, she knows I have more expensive tastes, so she goes out of her way and gets custom made things for me…holidays, special occasions…random acts of kindness, what-have-you," He said thoughtfully. "She's a woman of simple tastes, really…does things for people. While it may not be politically correct, she can be more generous and charitable than most, even when she is compared to the Waynes."

Demetri cleared his throat bravely.

"Uh yes, she's very, _very_ generous. No one could deny that."

"Most certainly, not _you_."

"Sir?"

Oswald leaned back in his chair, interlacing his fingers together over his stomach, and sternly peered at Demetri, who tried to make himself look even smaller.

It was impossible, of course.

However, that was the point: Oswald's main reason for not wanting Sylvia in the same room was due to her motherly instincts kicking in when it concerned the staff. Granted, while he liked her nurturing spirit—(loved and lived for it in every humanly way that was possible)—the fact of the matter was that Sylvia would have eventually swooped in and tried to save Demetri.

Oswald would have had little choice in the matter to let things go. He had an enormous soft spot for Sylvia, and couldn't deny much of anything to her, even if it meant postponing a conversation he needed to have with Sylvia's stray.

Now that she'd made the choice to leave the room, this conversation was _happening_.

"You _do_ see where I'm going with this, don't you, Mr. Byrd." Oswald said knowingly. "Despite what you've led some people to believe, we _both_ know you're smarter and a _lot_ cleverer than what you would make yourself out to seem. Personally, I wouldn't care if Sylvia maimed you, or even decided to kill you. None of those options would have disturbed me, or even concerned me in the slightest."

"But?"

"The _very_ fact that she let you live after everything you have done…that, young man, is what concerns me. It has brought something to my attention. Do you know what that is?"

"No, sir."

"She's a lot more charitable than what I was led to believe." He shrugged, adding, "She goes out to the Narrows on weekends and gives handouts to random homeless people, lump sums of money that she neither needs nor wants for herself. A female Robin Hood, if you will. She even goes out of her way to make sure everyone feels included. For example: Tomorrow, she's visiting the middle school in order to hold a staff position so that she can form a dance team that includes juvenile delinquents, the differently disabled, basically anyone who has ever felt excluded."

"That's very generous of her."

"Yes, it is. Isn't it."

"Very."

"I'd like to say that we could sit here and talk about her strengths all day long, but sadly, here's where our conversation darkens." Oswald noted with faux sadness.

Demetri's eyes widened as he stood.

"She's too charitable for her own good," Oswald continued darkly. " _So_ sympathetic to the people who've suffered as she had to suffer: the orphans who don't have a mother or a father, especially the children who still have both parents but don't connect with them as well as they should; the homeless street children who have not yet had the privilege of proving their brass; and…people like _you_ , who have so much alleged potential to be an asset."

Oswald said with a frown: "I admit that I see her point. You _do_ have potential but where she thinks your penchant is for allegiance, I believe it's for treachery. Now, tell me if any of this seems new to you."

"No, sir. Nothing new. I've heard all of this before."

"As you should have. Now…" Oswald reached into the inner pocket of his waist coat and pulled out a switch blade, pressing the button so the glimmer of silver became more obvious. "I've had every intention of correcting her mistake since the moment she let you live. I'd like to think she and I share the same pragmatic way of thinking, but sadly, Sylvia is more…Well, she only sees what's in front of her. I look a little further than a week—months, even. And I see you betraying her again."

"Mr. Cobblepot—Mr. Penguin—Sir," Demetri said quickly, raising his hands up, "I know what this looks like—what it _can_ look like—but I promise, I swear, I'm not—"

"Not _what_?"

"Delilah pulled the wool over my eyes—I was manipulated…but I see more clearly! I'm not the traitor people think I am. I care for Miss Sylvia, more than Delilah ever did, more than I can even admit, and there is no way I would make the same mistake twice. Look, sir, look what I did to myself—I'm more than willing to do it again, so I can…"

Perspiration dotted on his forehead. With despair in his eyes, Demetri grabbed the switchblade from Oswald. He started rolling up his left sleeve, over his elbow. At that moment, Oswald realized what Demetri was going to do; quickly, he grabbed the knife back.

"Whoa, whoa—that is not necessary!" Oswald quickly pressed the blade back into its metal nest and placed it in the inner pocket of his waist coat.

"But sir, how else can I prove to you that I'm loyal…"

"That, in itself, was _enough_. Besides, I don't want to put my housekeeper through the pain of having to clean up the room. On a personal note, I doubt it would go over very well with Sylvia if she found out I let that happen. But _just_ so we're clear: she may have decided to let you live for whatever her intentions are. Personally, I'm undecided. For now, rest easy."

He held out his hand. Demetri shook it. Just as they did, Sylvia came back into the living room, humming to herself.

Oswald gripped Demetri's hand hard enough so the latter whimpered, and he pulled Demetri towards him, whispering dangerously, "If I so much as hear a _rumor_ of you going behind her back, or that you've turned traitor—"

"Y-you'll kill me…"

Oswald sent him a hard smile.

"So, we understand each other."

"Y-yes, sir."

Oswald withdrew his hand, and straightened as Sylvia approached the two of them, smiling from ear-to-ear.

"Are the men done talking?"

"We just finished." Oswald stated coolly, glancing at Demetri, who smiled weakly in response.

"Demetri, why don't you go freshen up? You're sweating like a pig." Sylvia noted.

Demetri excused himself with a relieved sigh of thanks and quickly walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Sylvia gazed in the direction of which he'd disseminated, then turned to peer knowingly at Oswald, her arms crossed lazily over her chest.

"You scared him shitless, didn't you?"

"I had a discussion," Oswald clarified, his business-like tone back to the surface. "If there was any intimidation barring the outcome, I doubt it's anything to worry about."

"Your intent _was_ to scare him."

"Guilty," He confessed, smirking. "Seemed to work, didn't it?"

"Did you use the cane as a segue?"

He frowned, saying, "How did you know that?"

"I was standing outside of the door," She explained, jabbing her thumb over her shoulder to indicate the door that led to the kitchen. "I had some idea how scared people are of you, but never knew just how threatening you could be to my staff."

"Is that a criticism?"

"A jovial observation, one of which I think you—above all—can appreciate."

He gave her a look, saying incredulously, "You're getting some type of sexual gratification from all of this, _aren't_ you?"

"Oh, you have _no fucking_ idea." Sylvia responded, smiling widely.

"I don't understand you sometimes." Oswald said, slightly amused. "First, you don't like me intimidating your staff. But then you get titillated by the idea of me doing what you didn't want me to do in the first place."

"I don't understand it either if it makes you feel any different. Do you think badly of me now?"

"Not at all."

"Oh, good." She wrapped her arms around his neck, adding, "So, _what_ do you think of me?"

"You're an enigma to me, darling. I don't know what to think."

"But you like it, I'm guessing?"

"Very much so." Oswald agreed, allowing a sly little smile to reach his lips. "I'm still learning things about you that I never knew before."

"That's all part of the journey." Sylvia said, winking at him. "Speaking of learning new things…"

"Good segue."

"Thank you!"

"What's your news?"

"We're having a daughter." Sylvia returned casually.

Oswald nodded, then when he grasped the depth of her statement, he looked at her with wide-eyed surprise. Sylvia leaned into him, kissed him, and he returned it.

Attempting to contain his excitement, he said with a smile, "We should start coming up with names, I suspect?"

"I already have a few if you want to discuss them during dinner."

"Assuming we have a quieter one this time around."

Sylvia chuckled, "A quiet dinner in Gotham…I doubt that's such a thing, sweetie."

"We could try."

"Well, Olga's prepping in the kitchen, still. We could try making a second baby before dinner, if you're game." Sylvia mused, licking his upper lip. "Of course, you already know _I_ am."

Oswald's answer came in the form of another kiss, although more passionate.


	26. Deep Talks In The Night

Chapter Twenty-Six: Deep Talks In The Night

* * *

Oswald watched Sylvia sleep beside him. Normally a light sleeper, Sylvia would often turn in her sleep, hear something go 'bump' in the night, and she'd toss and turn. Most recently, and perhaps more frequently, she would stir. Sylvia said it was because the baby kept moving, tossing and turning much like its mother. And much like its mother, the baby was regularly restless. And not just at night—during the day, too.

If, by chance, Oswald happened to turn on the light when it was pitch black, Sylvia said that the baby moved—the doctors explained that the baby is trying to cover its eyes much like if there was a loud sound, the baby would attempt to cover its ears.

When Sylvia tossed and turned more often in a night, Oswald had started patting her stomach, talking to their unborn daughter, assuring that all was well. Whether or not the baby could hear him was something entirely different, but whenever he quelled it of its restlessness, the baby as well as the mother slept more soundly at night.

And the fact that his baby was responding to him already prior to her even coming into the world—well, that always made Oswald's day.

While he would occasionally wake up after feeling Sylvia move too frequently beside him, changing positions every hour or so because of her leg cramps or backaches she quietly complained about, Oswald's insomnia wasn't due to either of these things.

He was thinking of Demetri.

Sitting up with his back against the headboard, Oswald contemplated telling Demetri to stay somewhere else. His existence—knowing he was under the same roof as him and his family—was intolerable for Oswald…even _if_ Sylvia had insisted Demetri stay in the manor with them.

He'd accepted it because he couldn't ever deny her anything. However, now that the deed was done and Demetri had been integrated into the manor with them, Oswald was frigid at the idea. What if Demetri, born of his own intolerance of Oswald's paranoia, decided to end the interrogative questions at odd hours of the day, and kill them both in their sleep?

The thought had occurred to Oswald, so surely, Demetri would have already thought of this once before. And if he'd not thought of it before, what would keep the stray from getting to that same conclusion?

Oswald glanced at Sylvia, who mumbled some of the oddest things while in her dreaming state. He'd only caught a few words, but she mentioned pickles, a small blurb about meat pies, and a murmured statement of 'I don't want _that_ mattress…'.

Again…some of the _oddest_ things.

She lied on her back now, and her baby bump peeked from underneath her black night shirt. She was showing now—no mistake about that. She didn't quite waddle around and she could still bend over to pick things up—Sylvia was versatile in that way.

He'd gone to her club on a Friday night, listened to her sing, and when after the duty hours had ended, Oswald had watched her lead a few new dancers in the choreography she'd come up with during her own sleepless nights. While she _was_ showing, Oswald noticed that it didn't stop her from keeping up with her night club or her passion for sing and dance. She was just as flexible and energetic when she wasn't carrying a baby!

"Mmm….those are my cookies…not…yours." Sylvia murmured. (Cookies and pickles…this woman's appetite was all over the place.). "Mmmfromthejarmm..."

Forget killing Demetri tonight, Oswald thought. Perhaps he was getting a little too paranoid. Not that anyone could blame him, right? He was ruling the Underworld, and was a father-to-be. All he wanted was to make sure that no one was out to hurt his family…

When he felt Sylvia's hand on his knee, he was pulled out of his reverie, glancing down at her face to see that she was awake—a still little sleepy, but otherwise, her eyes were open.

"What are you doing, Sweetheart?" Sylvia asked tiredly.

"Thinking." He answered vaguely.

"About?"

"You know what about."

"Oh, _that_ old gem." Sylvia mused sleepily. She yawned, and put her hands over her stomach, patting the spot above her bellybutton.

"Did she wake you?" Oswald asked.

"Her head is right on my fucking bladder. And she kicked me in the ribs…just when I was starting to sleep well, too."

"Dreaming about cookies and pickles—I can't imagine wanting to wake up from that." Oswald teased, smirking when her eyebrows rose up to her forehead. "Turns out you talk quite a bit in your sleep too, darling."

"Mmm." Sylvia all but responded. She sat up, putting her back against the headboard. Pointedly, she took her own pillow and placed it between her back and the headboard, minding the position before turning to him. "I thought you had the discussion with Demetri."

"I did."

"So, what's the issue?"

"I'm worried." Oswald answered calmly. "He's sleeping under the same roof as me. I find it hard to sleep knowing that."

"Did he threaten you?"

"Of course not."

"Did he seem like he was going to hurt me?" Sylvia asked.

"No."

"So why fret?"

"He's a _known_ traitor, Pet. Knowing that alone isn't exactly reassuring."

Sylvia rubbed her head, looking like she was in pain before she said softly, "If you think he's conspiring against you, then tell him to sleep somewhere else."

"I'm not worried about him turning against _me_. It's _your_ safety I'm worried about," Oswald said vehemently. "At any moment, he could come in and finish what Delilah started. If you're telling me that thought has never occurred to you—"

"Oz, the thought _has_ occurred to me. But I'm not thinking too much on it."

"You trust him, then?"

"Not yet, but I want to."

"So you'll sleep here needlessly alarmed until you can trust him?" Oswald returned skeptically. "That doesn't sound anything like you."

"He can't prove himself if we don't allow him the chance to do just that." Sylvia explained, rubbing her head again. "I'm trusting my gut on this one."

"Like you trusted the other two girls?"

"Brittany was weak; Delilah was misguided."

"Both traits of which Demetri seems to share with them, mind you." Oswald reminded unhappily. He glanced at the direction of their bedroom door, adding, "Knowing there's even the slightest chance of our throats getting slit in the middle of the night—"

"So kill him, then." Sylvia sighed, rubbing her tired eyes with the heel of her palms.

"You wouldn't stop me?"

"I wouldn't stop you," she assured. "But if it makes any difference, I really, really, _really_ doubt that Demetri is sitting in bed thinking of ways to end our lives. If anyone is the most nervous in this house, it'd be him. Last I checked, he was sleeping like the dead."

"You went to check on him?"

"After how much you scared him, I felt obligated to. He's afraid that you'll hunt him down and kill him in his sleep. Your intimidation practices…" She chuckled, shaking her head a little.

"You said you _liked_ me scaring him."

"And I did—it turned me on, but I also had to make sure he wasn't going to die from a post-threat heart attack," Sylvia said with a smile. "When I checked on him, he was sleeping like a baby…which, now that I think on, I don't know why people use that phrase. Our baby has been just squirming all fucking night."

"Try singing to her," Oswald suggested.

"Why?"

"The doctors said it would calm her, remember?" He said pointedly. "It's written in all the books you bought, you might want to consider reading them too, you know."

"Okay, Father of the Year. Don't bite my head off," Sylvia returned, although she smiled in spite of herself. "When I bought those books, I didn't think you'd be reading them front and back."

"What else would I have done with them?"

"I don't know, throw them in a fire, maybe?"

"Why on Earth would I have done that?"

"I don't know," Sylvia said, leaning her head back against the headboard. "I'm not thinking straight…I'm too tired."

Oswald had a handful of the bed covers in his hands, and he fidgeted with them before Sylvia spoke again.

"I wanted to thank you," she said.

"For?"

"Not killing Fish."

"Yes, about that…"

"What?" Sylvia asked, her eyes closed as she rested.

"I wanted to talk to you about what happened while you were in the building with her. As her hostage." Oswald stated calmly. "She didn't hurt you any, did she?"

"Nope. In fact, she seemed hell bent on me not being harmed in any way, shape, or fashion." Sylvia returned, looking at him. "Fish isn't the same person she was before—she's different. Deadlier, I think, but more different. I kind of like her for that. Before this time around, she wanted my head. When I saw her, she looked like she wanted the same thing but she called me 'baby girl' when all was said and done."

"Did she, now."

"Don't sound so disappointed." Sylvia said lightly. "She may not have always been the best boss in town, but back then, I'd have done anything just to hear her call me that."

Oswald didn't say anything in response..

Sylvia suddenly gasped, and Oswald looked at her, startled. She chuckled, putting a hand on her side, "She's kicking me again."

"Well, she's a fighter." Oswald chortled.

"Wanna feel?"

"Sure."

Oswald scooted closer to her. Sylvia took his hand and placed his palm over her right side, just above her waistline, which had slowly been disappearing as the baby grew bigger within. At first, there was nothing, but Oswald smiled to himself when he felt what might have been a little foot meet his palm. It was so fucking sweet that it nearly brought him to tears.

"She knows it's her daddy," Sylvia whispered, kissing Oswald's cheek. "She's getting bigger…frankly, so am I. My waist is becoming something of a myth; I've gained ten fucking pounds."

"Maybe it's the cookies and pickles," He teased.

"Oh, nowyou've got jokes!" She returned, smirking at him. "If you're not careful about what you eat, babe, you'll be gaining another ten pounds too."

"Touche, my dear."

"If you want an appetite suppressant, I'll share my secret." Sylvia said, shuddering slightly. "The gynecologist gave me some birthing videos to watch so I know what to expect, and—let's just say—they're not the most flattering things. I've cut a man open from the stomach down and watched his intestines and other vital organs fall on my shoes, but _these_ videos make me want to be sick."

"What are they about?"

"Child birth—the labor, the screaming, and what will be me in another four or five months, give or take a few weeks. Speaking of screams…Did you visit Ed any in the past couple of weeks?" asked Sylvia.

"Not recently. I'm given to understand that you have?"

"Mm-hmm."

"And how was he?"

"He's a little more…what do you call it… 'acclimated'." Sylvia explained, nibbling on the inside of her cheek after finding the word best to describe him. "Oswald, when you were in Arkham, did you find it hard to sleep?"

"At first…but the screaming becomes something of a white noise after a while," Oswald answered seriously.

"Poor Ed…all alone."

"Being 'alone' isn't the worst part, trust me," Oswald reassured. "It's when the guards take you out of the cell to be a part of the social gathering that comes after. Being surrounded by lunatics, morons, and the idiotic staff—that was the hardest part…and being away from you."

Sylvia beamed, saying, "That's sweet of you to say, Ozzie."

Oswald moved to sit on his knees, facing her. Sylvia looked at him, curious of his behavior.

"I have to tell you something," He told her cryptically. "It's something I've been holding onto."

"What is it?"

"You're aware that there was a restraining order that I had signed," Oswald said unhappily. "An order that prohibited you from visiting me, and restricted any form of communication to coincide between us."

"You said you didn't remember why you'd signed it." Sylvia recalled, nodding with understanding. "That wouldn't surprise me, seeing as how Strange was—"

"No, that's just it."

"What is?"

Oswald said darkly, "I don't even remember signing anything."

Sylvia frowned, saying, "You don't?"

"I don't. In fact, everything from that time in Arkham is abstract, a blur, a dream—one that I couldn't escape." Oswald said quietly, glancing down at his hands. "Being away from you was painful. Had I remembered signing anything to keep you away from me, that'd be one thing. The fact that I did it without even remembering…"

He looked as though he was being torn apart. Sylvia took his hands in one of hers, and then touched his chin so that his eyes were gently coaxed to meet her own.

"Oswald, don't torture yourself."

"I didn't _want_ to be away from you." He said adamantly. "I never wanted that."

"I know."

"And what came after—the things I said—"

"Baby, you already apologized. That's enough." Sylvia told him gently. "Strange fucked with your mind—he's a psychiatrist with an incredible sense of accomplishment, but his _job_ is getting into people's heads. Signing that restraining order, saying what you did when you were brainwashed—I don't feel like any of that is an indicator of how you truly feel for me."

"Sylvia, everything I've done—"

" _Shh_."

Oswald looked at her uncomfortably, like he had plenty more to say. Instead, Sylvia kissed him, and he fell into that kiss, more than eager to feel comforted by her soft words.

"Here's what I know." Sylvia murmured. "You make me feel safe when I'm around you. You did everything you could to keep Gertrud safe—even though things didn't work out the way they should have, even with all the things you've endured, you've still allowed yourself to feel, to love. I can feel that, and your actions speak for themselves. I mean, you went to Arkham to keep me from going to Black Gate, and you've done everything in your power to protect me."

"Sylvia…"

"And," She continued, caressing his face between the palm of her hands, "I know you'll do the same thing when our daughter is born. Everything you do, you do with love. _That's_ what I know, and that's _all_ I care about."

Oswald smiled in spite of himself, saying, "Not in this lifetime or in the next will I ever truly understand how lucky I am to have you."

"Don't be so fucking modest, honey. You got me like you've gotten everything else," Sylvia told him. "You chased me."

"So has every other man or woman," Oswald reminded.

"Yeah, but you did it with class. And that makes _all_ the difference in the world." Sylvia said, winking at him. "Plus, it's hard to find a gentleman, never the less one who's driven by their emotions rather than their crotches. I wouldn't have enough hours in the day to list all the people who came at me with their dicks first."

"Well, with _that_ settled, I might take a nightcap." Oswald chuckled, shuffling out of bed. "Do you care for one?"

"If the nightcap is a cup of tea, I'd love some." Sylvia returned, smiling.

"Sugar and honey?"

"You know me well enough, surprise me."

"I can surprise you with no tea."

"That _would_ be a surprise," Sylvia chortled. "Nice callback."

"I thought so too," Oswald giggled. "I'll be right back. Love you."

"As I love you."

He beamed at her before leaving the bedroom. Sylvia repositioned her pillow and leaned against the headboard again. After a moment had passed, she said aloud: "You can come out now."

Opening the closet door, Demetri stepped out, looking more or less relieved.

"See?" Sylvia said, gesturing to the door through which Oswald had left.

"You gave him permission to kill me, though." Demetri reminded. "That's not helping me."

"He doesn't want to kill you—as long as you don't give him a reason to."

"You're pretty forthright when it comes to talking to him."

"Shut up, Demetri. I let you hide in the closet because you were afraid that he'd come to your bed and stab you in the face." Sylvia stated. "Now that you hear he's not out to rip your heart from your chest, you should be able to sleep in your own damn bed now…You didn't do anything while you were waiting in there, did you?"

"Like?"

"Like what a man would obviously do if I was laying in bed, _asleep_."

"I wasn't…jacking off...or anything, if that's what you're wondering." Demetri said uncomfortably.

"Well, that's a blessing in disguise, isn't it?"

"He _does_ suspect me though."

"Of course he does. We _all_ do, frankly. He doesn't want to kill you though because you've defected before. He just wants to make sure I'm safe. That we both are," Sylvia said, touching her belly. "This was my way of showing you that. Do you see that at least?"

"You couldn't have set up a meeting or something? That might have resulted in the same outcome."

"Like an intervention? Please…"

"It wouldn't have worked?"

"It wouldn't have, trust me. Oswald is as an honest criminal as they come, but he isn't sentimental when it comes to the staff," Sylvia stated. "That's why I had you hide, so he didn't know you were here, so that he would be as honest with me about you as possible. Now that you have your proof, I hope that you can sleep a little easier."

Demetri nodded, saying, "I doubt any other boss would have done this for me."

"You're definitely right about that." Sylvia said calmly. "That said, I suggest you get going. If Oswald comes back and sees you in the bedroom with me without a shirt on, you're more liable to get shot now than any other time."

"Right. Thank you, ma'am."

"Don't mention it. And son..."

Demetri glanced at her expectantly.

"Everything that you heard here doesn't go past that door, got it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Get going."

Demetri quickly left the room, and Sylvia stood, closing the closet door. As she did, she heard Oswald enter the room, his feet shuffling the carpet.

"I saw Demetri in the hallway." He noted.

"He's as restless as the rest of us. Apparently, no one can sleep in this house."

Oswald joined her in bed, handing Sylvia her cup of tea, to which she gratefully thanked him. After they had their nightcap, sleep came easier.


	27. A Change of Jobs

Chapter Twenty-Seven: A Change of Jobs

* * *

"You have to move a certain way when you're on the damn stage," Sylvia told the dancers for the fifth time as she pressed 'pause' on the stereo system. "If you don't, people lose _interest_."

The dancers…or what she was forced to call them…were amateurs. That could be said already even before she'd started rehearsing with them. Sloppy footwork, messy handiwork, and don't even get her started on the random hip thrusts.

There were four altogether. Two men, two women.

Salt and Pepper were the girls—a soft, milky blonde and her friend, a chocolate brown-skinned brunette, respectively. They called themselves Salt and Pepper, their real names were not relevant nor necessary to know in Sylvia's mind.

Jack and Joel were the male dancers, brothers, both sturdy footed and while they were both _very_ muscular in the best way possible, they couldn't shimmy their hips in the slightest way.

All four 'dancers' had found themselves in the application process to become a Regular in Sylvia's performances (ideally every other night if the money was good), and while they'd been accepted, neither of them knew just how high Sylvia's standards were.

Because they were new to the scene, they knew Sylvia only by her stage name, the same one that the media as well as the police had coined her.

"We've rehearsed this a hundred times, Lark," complained Pepper, crossing her arms. "We've been practicing this routine so many times already."

"Obviously not _enough_ ," Sylvia told her crossly. "How old are you?"

"I'm twenty."

"And you?" Sylvia addressed the rest of them.

"Twenty."

"Twenty-one."

"Twenty."

Sylvia nodded, hearing their responses and said bluntly, "I am in my early damn thirties, _pregnant_ , and I'm dancing **marathons** around you, guys."

"Lark, it's not that we don't care," explained Jack, "we're tired."

"It's only been two fucking hours!" Sylvia snapped.

"It's been four, actually," Jack's brother chimed in respectfully.

"Save it." She ordered. "If you want to take a break, by all means. Take one. But who suffers if you all can't get your act together by Friday night, huh?"

"You…?" All four voiced simultaneously.

"No. _You_. Because _I_ know how to sing and dance. I will be fine. _You_ four will be out on the fucking streets," Sylvia minded irately. "So, go. Take a fucking break. Twenty minutes. But if you come back with less enthusiasm, we're going to have some _words_."

They nodded and quickly left for a drink, a drive-thru meal, what-have-you. Sylvia rolled her eyes, sitting on a pew at her bar as she rubbed the lower lumbar of her back, feeling it ache more than anything. It didn't 'hurt' per se, but it wasn't the most comfortable feeling in the world.

"They're learning."

Sylvia recognized the voice, saying callously, "They're learning, all right, Demetri. But if they learn any slower, I'll be fifty."

Demetri came up from behind her, offering a glass of water. She took it, sipping through a straw.

"Do you need an Ibuprofen?" He offered.

"No. I'm fine."

"Tylenol, then."

"I'm _fine_ , Demetri."

He nodded, crossing his arms and standing next to her mindfully. Sylvia looked at him curiously before she said softly, "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your job is to guard the club. Not to wait on me, hand and foot."

"Someone has to," Demetri said with a careful glance to her. "It's not like anyone else is."

"Meaning?"

"I figured it's the least I can do."

"The least you can do is your _job_."

"What if I wanted a different job?"

"We're not haggling." Sylvia said tiredly. "I'm in no mood to negotiate nor will I ever be."

"I'm not talking about a pay raise."

"You're talking about being some type of umbrella boy."

"Maybe? I hear it's a nice job."

"It really depends on who you ask," Sylvia said calmly. "I don't want one."

"You may not want one, but you need one."

"I'm fairly certain I don't."

"With all due respect, Miss Sylvia, I have to disagree."

Sylvia blinked, glancing at Demetri, taken aback. Calmly, but dangerously, she said, "Excuse me?"

Demetri took a step back when he heard the hostile edge to her tone; in fact, he took a few paces away from her.

"You're hiding it pretty well," Demetri told her quietly. "You're hurting though."

"It's a backache. I have them a lot—it's a monthly inconvenience for women."

"And you're impatient."

"Because people like you don't listen very well."

"And," Demetri continued as though she wasn't interrupting him, "I think you deserve one. You're on your feet all day, and you deal with..." (He scoffed when he watched the dancers argue amongst each other, trying to decide who was to blame for Sylvia's temper.) "…The rabble."

"Well, you're not wrong there."

"I think you'd deserve someone to wait on you, hand and foot." Demetri explained. "And you've done so much for me already, more than enough. It's the least I can do in order to pay back all that you've done."

Sylvia looked at him for a moment, a long time, actually. She stood, and said quietly, "How do I know that for certain?"

"What do you mean?"

"You _say_ you want to be there for me, to wait on me, to give back after all I've done for you. But how do I know that's the truth?" Sylvia questioned. "Maybe you want to get close to me, wait until I let my guard down, then betray me when I least expect it?"

Demetri gulped, "That's not what I want at all."

"I'd tell you to prove it to me, but we both know what you're willing to do in order to show you're loyal, don't we?"

"I'd do it a thousand times over."

"Please, don't." Sylvia said quickly, before he could take anything to break or use as a slicer.

"I know you don't trust me yet—"

"—You're very perceptive—"

"—But you said so yourself! How can you trust me if you don't give me a chance to prove that you can?" Demetri asked, holding his hands out in gesticulation.

"Well, that's a fairly good point. But the last umbrella boy I had died for me," Sylvia said quietly. "You're sweet, Demetri, but…I _don't_ need an umbrella boy."

"So a body guard?"

"I have several who can do the job and have been doing that job a lot longer than you, before you were born."

Demetri sighed, "Is there anything I can do?"

"Your job. Please, go do it." Sylvia ordered, gesturing to the door.

Like a dog being told he couldn't go for a walk, Demetri lowered his head and walked to the door where Dagger and Chilly were standing in as bouncers. Sylvia watched him go, and she raised her eyes to the ceiling, hoping that someone would either convince her that this boy was good enough to be in her inner circle, or just throw him a bone.

The dancers came back—all four of them looking more or less happy, or trying to look it anyway.

"From the top," Sylvia said. "And if I have to get on stage and show you how to do it again, I'm calling it a day. Got it?"

They agreed.

And they messed up a few more times.

Sylvia turned the music off, and said, "Get the hell out of my club. We'll try again tomorrow."

The 'dancers' left.

Frustrated, Sylvia sat at the bar, contemplating whether or not she wanted to take the risk of drinking herself under the table. Forget that she was pregnant…

"Demetri."

The man heard his name and quickly came to her, standing as such.

"Do me a favor, would you?"

"Sure. Anything!"

"Go to the nearest McDonald's, and get me a whopper." Sylvia said, smiling at him sincerely.

"Extra pickles?"

"Yes, _please_."

"Yes, Ma'am." Demetri said, nodding vigorously before he left the club. As he did, Oswald came inside, noting the man's existence before walking up to Sylvia, who smiled at him lovingly.

"Where is _he_ heading off to?" He asked suspiciously.

"McDonalds," Sylvia answered.

Oswald raised his eyebrows curiously at her.

She explained, "I'm hungry."

"Angry-hungry or bored-hungry?"

"A little bit of both."

Oswald chuckled, "I guess he's useful after all."

"No doubt." Sylvia returned, grinning broadly at him.

* * *

It wasn't until later that day before Oswald was able to have a quiet evening with his beloved. Dinner had passed, and it was well past eight o'clock. He and Sylvia had dressed down to their pajamas—him in his black top and bottoms; Sylvia, in her baby blue silk night slip and matching robe.

There was silence in the living room, aside from the crackling fireplace, the low hum of the ceiling fan above, and the soft classical music playing on the radio.

Sylvia lied on the couch, her head in Oswald's lap, her face buried in his stomach as she rested her eyes. Oswald laced his fingers through her tangles of ginger hair, the contrast of it to his pale hands was somewhat hypnotizing. The other hand gently traced unremarkable designs on her shoulder.

"I went to the school," Sylvia said hoarsely, "to see if I can become a part of the staff."

Oswald turned his gaze from the locks of her hair to her eyes, and said lightly, "And how did that go?"

"Not well." She returned, looking up at him. "The staff and principal reacted just as I thought they would. 'No positions available', or so they say, and the idea of holding a dance class outside of their proper educational regime was non-negotiable. According to Principal Donner, the children have an 'efficient-enough' dance coach, namely Mrs. Bunapart, and he doesn't see why any extracurricular activity such as that would be worth the fuss."

"You tried," Oswald said supportively. "It's their loss."

"Not their loss. The children's. The kids who want to be a part of something but were turned away because they weren't the cheerleading-type."

"I imagine you've already gone to the Board of Education…?"

"Yes, I have."

"And?"

"No one wants to replace Mrs. Bunapart." Sylvia returned, rolling her eyes. "The woman is almost sixty, maybe older. The best she can do is the 'sprinkler' move, and apparently, that's the only thing the school feels is necessary to win any dance competitions."

"Maybe it's for the best."

Sylvia looked up at him curiously, lying on her back: "What's for the best?"

"The school turning you down." Oswald answered. "You do enough as it is. You run your club; you have a dance ensemble of your own—"

"—You mean the four people who call themselves 'dancers', but can't figure out a four-step cadence? Yeah… _that's_ an ensemble." Sylvia scoffed, smirking up at him.

"They'll improve."

"You have more faith in them than I do, then."

"Not to mention you're doing more with the Paddock Family…"

"Mr. Paddock is deaf and almost blind," Sylvia said defensively. "You said you didn't mind if I got more involved with the Family."

"You're basically taking over."

"So what if I am?" She said smoothly, sitting up. "Mr. Paddock is practically dying. He doesn't have a son or daughter to take over the family, no blood relatives of any kind. Who does he trust to run the Family? Me. Who does he have left if not me?"

Oswald said coolly, "Of course you realize that once you become a Don, you will be unable to operate as my second-in-command?"

"Because my affiliation with the Paddock Family would somehow corrupt my objective point of view?" Sylvia presumed smoothly, smirking at him. "I'm nothing if not objective."

"Before you take his place as the Don, I'd seriously sleep on it."

"If you prefer that I not be affiliated with the Paddock Family, I won't opt for it."

"Just like that?"

" _Just_ like that," Sylvia submitted softly.

She lied back down so her head was on his lap, looking up at him beautifully, saying, "Being the leader of the Paddock Family is less than important to me if being one will make you unhappy. They're a bunch of old farts, anyway, looking to make an extra buck. But who knows who will take Isaac's place once he is no longer able to operate as their Don."

"If they attempt to go behind your back, I imagine they'll meet the same end as young Anderson." Oswald mused, smirking down at her when Sylvia's doting expression changed to one of guilt.

She pointed up at him with a remark, "Don't poke fun, Oz—he _deserved_ to die."

"I know he did, I just love watching you become so defensive when he's mentioned." Oswald said shamelessly. "It's kind of fun, actually."

She rolled her eyes and closed them, living in the moment as Oswald continued to slowly comb his fingers through her hair; from her head to the arm of the couch where the ends of her ginger locks cascaded and dangled over the edge.

"How's your brother?" Oswald asked conversationally.

"He's fucking a reporter," Sylvia answered nonchalantly without opening her eyes.

Oswald's eyes widened at her indifference to the fact, seemingly stumped as to what to say next. At that point, Sylvia opened her eyes, a crooked smile ghosting its way over her pink lips.

"I'd hope he'd have kept his high standards after Lee but apparently, they've just sunk lower than the Titanic." Sylvia stated.

"He's _your_ brother."

"And he's _your_ brother-in-law," Sylvia said, poking the brim of his nose with the same teasing tone. "You married into the family, so that makes him your brother too, you know."

"I don't claim him."

"Unfortunately, I do."

"That makes you responsible for him."

"Undoubtedly," Sylvia returned, smirking still. "He's not the 'friends with benefits' type though. He _thinks_ he is, but he'll become attached, if he hasn't already. I don't know Vale enough but I trust her as far as I can throw her."

"And how far is that?"

"Not far at all."

Oswald smiled with their light banter, and he started massaging the back of her neck. Soft pressure around the nape, in small concentric circles.

Sylvia said lightly, "Lee's back."

"Dr. Thompkins, you mean."

"Mm-hm. Bullock called me the other day to tell me the 'good news'."

"Compared to the other Medical Examiners, I think it could be classified as a 'good news'," Oswald said politely. "I've only spoken to her a few number of times, but in those moments, I think she's fairly professional. Seems like a good candidate for the job."

"She's too nice for Gotham." Sylvia said, closing her eyes again. "The city will ruin her. I wished she'd left and never came back. And not because seeing her will make Jim feel terrible. She's a good egg—better to drop out of the race before the other players run her over, you know?"

"Why did Harvey call you?" asked Oswald curiously.

"He keeps me in the know. Tells me things that might be important for you and me to know in the long run," said Sylvia carelessly.

"And—dare I ask—what is the exchange for that?"

"He tells _me_ things. I tell _him_ things."

"Like what for example?"

Sylvia opened her eyes when she heard his paranoia. She saw it in the green hue of his blue eyes, the way the suspicion was slowly creeping in. Having heard that tone a number of times, Sylvia slowly sat up, stood on her knees, then straddled Oswald with a sense of accomplishment once having done so. Oswald watched her, perplexed, but curious.

"Whether Barnes likes it or not, Harvey and I have something of a sibling bond…almost a hate-and-love relationship," said Sylvia gently. "Harvey knows that _I_ know pretty much every skell that runs around the sewers, and for the information he extracts from me, I like to know pertinent information. Some of it seems irrelevant, almost _useless_. Really, I like information. Much like _you_. Sometimes, I tell him a few things of our operations; in return, he tells me where to look for traitors, trying to sneak in through security. Sometimes, it's so I know just _who_ has returned to Gotham and whether or not they'll be making trouble for me and the rest of my family."

Oswald looked at her, clearly disgruntled that she was making deals under the table with one of the detectives, but then again—who was he to chastise her about making deals with the GCPD.

"Namely Dr. Leslie Thompkins," said Sylvia. "She was the light in my brother's life, and when he was carted off to Black Gate, she left the city. Allegedly, to never return. But here we are."

"And you suspect she is up to something?"

"I suspect nothing." She admitted. "It's not that I don't trust her to do something bad to my brother. Or that I think she's looking into joining a cult or something. But Jim's record of 'exes gone bad' isn't long, but it's fairly extensive. I mean, look at Barbara Kean."

"Noted." Oswald returned, looking up at Sylvia as she stood on her knees to reposition and almost loomed over him for a second until she sat back down, wriggling a little.

"And here's another tidbit of information," Sylvia said mischievously. "Barbara and Tabitha have a new source of entertainment. A hypnotist, by the name of Jervis Tetch."

"A hypnotist?" Oswald said, unimpressed.

"Illusionists _are_ moneymakers, Oz. Just because you don't like magic doesn't mean the rest of us are opposed to it." Sylvia teased.

"Have you seen his act?"

"No."

"Have you even met him?"

"Nope."

"How do you know he's good then?" Oswald asked.

"I don't know. I'm going off from what Barbara told me. He thrilled the audience, got a few people under his hypnotic spell; they pretended to be chickens, cows, birds, and dogs. He snapped his fingers, and everyone zapped back to their normality…never knowing they'd been hypnotized in the beginning. It's like a superpower, don't you think?"

"I'll believe it when I see it," scoffed Oswald.

"Maybe you will."

"Meaning?"

"I'm booking him," Sylvia said with an impish lift at the corner of her mouth. "I'm thinking 'Friday night'."

"You sing on Fridays." Oswald reminded.

"Every Friday night, yes, but I want to mix it up a little."

Oswald looked at her sadly, with big, puppy dog eyes. And Sylvia smiled in spite of herself.

"You don't think it's a good idea?" She guessed.

"On a contrary, you have me all wrong," He said apologetically. "I think it's a swell idea."

"But?" Sylvia encouraged, gesturing to him to do so.

"Personally…selfishly…I like to hear you sing." Oswald explained, smiling despite his own fault. "It's the highlight of my week."

"You've not missed one performance," She noted, grinning widely. "So fine, I'll book Tetch on a Thursday and keep my normal Friday routine. Acceptable?"

"More than." Oswald returned happily, cracking a grin.

With the compromise settled, they kissed on it. Lips lingered, and Oswald initiated a deeper kiss; Sylvia reciprocated.

Oswald moved his hands inside her robe, his fingers briefly lifting the hem of her slip so he could fully grasp her legs. His thumbs massaged the innermost side of her thighs; her calm moan vibrating inside his mouth, letting him know she was enjoying it.

"There's a conference being held tomorrow," Sylvia told him in between kisses, after which she softly giggled when Oswald moved their positions so he was lying on top of her.

"By whom exactly?"

"Who do you think?" Sylvia returned smartly but a soft moan escaped her after Oswald opened her robe, the sash falling to the wayside as he moved between her legs, and pressed his lower half against her. "Aubrey James…he's announcing the candidacy of a new mayor."

Oswald sprinkled kisses from her collar bone, to her throat, and then to her ear, at which point, she shuddered. He murmured, "He's a hack."

"Obviously." Sylvia returned, smirking at him.

She felt his hard-on slowly humping against her panties. Through their stimulating conversation, Oswald had been thinking of other things to do whilst sitting in the living room, Sylvia's head so close to his lap and another viable part of him. Sensing his desire, _feeling_ it too, Sylvia wrapped her legs around his waist so as to grant him more open access.

She said, "Do you want to keep talking about this or pause the conversation for another time?"

"What do _you_ think?" Oswald returned cockily.

"I think you want to keep talking about it."

Oswald looked at her pointedly before Sylvia laughed, shortly after pulling him into a kiss that made his yearning for her intensify. At that point, there was no further use for a 'quiet' evening.

* * *

 **Author's Note** : I'd like to thank Lasernarwal and Fangirl500 for their reviews recently. Much appreciated, and much love! Muah!


	28. Mayoral Candidates

Chapter 28: Mayoral Candidates

* * *

The townspeople of Gotham made a march towards the conference being held at the town square, a centrality in Gotham where several media vans were parked, and a podium on which all of Gotham's delegates and politicians stood, present for the announcement of the new mayor.

Leading the people was Oswald Cobblepot and his wife, Sylvia. On Oswald's right was Butch, his usual tag-a-long, and on Sylvia's left was Demetri, who had inexplicably obtained Sylvia's favor and had moved up from being a bouncer at _Lean on Vee_ 's to being her constant.

Aubrey James was speaking into the microphone as they steadily approached the conference. His voice was no where near cathartic and his words were hardly politically correct.

"Since the death of Galavan," Aubrey James stated, "The office has been governed by the elected officials standing behind me, as you see them. This city desperately needs experienced, seasoned leadership. And so, in their wisdom, they have persuaded me—much against my will—to resume the office of mayor until elections can be organized in the next year…"

" _STOP_!" Oswald ordered, his voice nearly echoing against the buildings surrounding them.

The crowd dispersed, all turning to the new attendees, all of whom looked disgruntled. Oswald, on the other hand, was mischievous.

Sylvia smiled, waving at James and Mrs. James, who stood just to the right of her husband, apparently offering what little support she could give.

"This proceeding is a sham," Oswald told the crowd, approaching the podium.

"Security!" James shouted, " _Remove_ this criminal!"

Immediately, Sylvia stood slightly in front of Oswald, who, in turn, gently moved her back.

"'Criminal?'" Oswald repeated, glancing at the security officials who had promptly obeyed their orders, then he turned on James, speaking to only the people while still facing James, if only to prove a point. "I was jailed _illegally_ by a corrupt system. A system that was put into place by _this_ man" (he indicated James appropriately) "who has the audacity to put himself right back in the position that he has brought so much shame and dishonor to."

" _How dare you_ ," growled James.

"No, how dare _you_ ," Oswald countered, stepping towards him, "waltz up there and announce yourself as mayor. The people demand to have a say into who will represent them, who will _protect_ them!"

"Yeah! Yeah!" Multitudes of praise and agreement sounded off from the crowd standing behind and around Sylvia, who looked at them with a satisfied expression.

She hadn't expected the people to be so quick in their agreement. Then again, didn't she say that her husband was charismatic? This certainly was a nod to that.

As the people hurrahed, waving their hands emphatically to Oswald's statement, Oswald turned to face the crowd, putting Aubrey James in the background.

"It was I—and I alone—who drove out the monsters that plagued our city!" Oswald told the crowd.

"Oh _please_!" James retorted.

Oswald responded, saying, "And where were you, then, while I faced peril at the hands of those _abominations_?"

"Probably at home with his head in a box," Sylvia muttered, only realizing she'd said this louder than intended when a few of the people in the crowd tittered.

" _Sir_!"

Oswald turned towards the voice that addressed him, and without needing to look, Sylvia already knew the owner of that voice. It was Valerie Vale, already at the scene and with a microphone at the ready.

"Are you challenging James' appointment to office?" Vale questioned eagerly.

"I most certainly am!" Oswald replied emphatically.

Butch and Sylvia glanced at each other, eyebrows raised. Well, _this_ was certainly a turn of events!

"Better go up there," Butch muttered, gesturing to the stage as Oswald made his way up to the surface.

"Why do I have to go?" Sylvia questioned as Butch egged her forward. "He's doing fine by himself."

"James' wife is up there."

"James' wife can suck my balls," Sylvia hissed, but she rolled her eyes when Butch nudged her so she stepped forward and stood on the podium alongside Oswald.

She smiled in spite of herself when he looked at her with new love in his eyes. Then, seriously, he grabbed a microphone attached to the podium, and addressed the crowd: "To govern this city, one must be _legally_ elected"— (He pointedly glared at James, who returned it.)—"which is why I, Oswald Cobblepot, announce my candidacy for the office of Mayor! And I demand—and the _people_ demand—that an emergency election be held forthwith!"

Sylvia smiled and leaned into Oswald and kissed his cheek.

Oswald looked all smug while peering over at James before turning to Sylvia and sending her an appreciative smile.

The crowd chanted "Cobblepot" over and over again, their proclaim deafening. What came after were the reporters making their rounds to different people in the crowd, questioning them about who they were ready to vote for, and why. There was discussion of when the election would be held—allegedly, a few months from now—and where it all would take place.

Oswald decided that he'd indulge the people's insistence to talk to him personally. They wanted to find out what he would be ready to offer as far as promises go when holding the office, and he joined Butch on the ground. Meanwhile, Sylvia stayed on the stage; Demetri quickly joined her.

He handed her a bottled water and she gratefully took it, taking a gulp before someone addressed her.

"Mrs. Cobblepot, is it?"

It was not Aubrey James standing near her, but his wife, Mrs. James.

Mrs. James was at least a foot taller than she with an aged face and a tight bun. Although she might have been beautiful in high school, she was now wrinkled and a little saggy around her jaw line and eyes. Dark amber eyes, brunette hair tied too tightly in a bun, and her smile lines were something of the past. Dressed in a bright orange coat over a beige jumpsuit, Mrs. James looked strict, but a breeze no more than five miles per hour might blow her over.

"Mrs. Cobblepot, _it is_." Sylvia returned smartly.

"I don't think we've officially met," Mrs. James stated calmly, although there was a tear in her politeness. It could have been mistaken for restrained nicety but Sylvia could tell otherwise.

"Not officially, no." She agreed. "But just because we've not met doesn't mean I don't know who you are. Just, as I am sure, you know who _I_ am."

"So pleasantries are out of order?"

"Well, if we're being politically correct, they were never mandatory," Sylvia replied pointedly.

Demetri, who stood at her side, glanced between Mrs. James and his mistress, offering only a small smile of discomfort as Mrs. James gave him a steely-eyed once-over.

"Let's not stand on ceremony, then." Mrs. James sneered. "You're a known felon, Mrs. Cobblepot. Everyone in Gotham knows that."

"Allegedly. I've never been imprisoned in Gotham." Sylvia said lightly.

"I would have to disagree with that."

"You can disagree all you want, ma'am, but—"

"You've been arrested before."

"Pardon?"

"When you were younger."

"When I was a teenager," corrected Sylvia with a small smile. "Kids will be kids. My face is in the newspaper from when I was a teenager, but aside from that, I've never been arrested. But since you're the one who brought it up—everyone knows _your_ mistakes too, so why not cut the crap and stop trying to intimidate me with my own past."

"You're a criminal," said Mrs. James, stepping towards her. "You're a _felon_. So is your husband. You, two, will _not_ win this election. You will be embarrassed, mortified by what is to come if you try to intervene, and you will wish your husband never tried to run against mine."

"Are we really doing this?" Sylvia said incredulously. "Comparing your husband's travesties to...to whatever you think Oswald or I might have done? _Seriously_? I mean, I'm game, but if you want to spill some real tea, sister, I've got a thousand pitchers." (She stepped closer to Mrs. James, who started to look unhinged.) "But being in an open area, I doubt you'd tell anyone just how corrupted your family _really is_ , so how about we save the mud-slinging for when we are in a bar, and our dicks are hanging out!"

"Well! I never!" Mrs. James gasped, stepping back. She addressed the crowd, saying, "Everyone! _Everyone_! This woman just threatened me! This woman—"

"You tried to threaten me first!" Sylvia snapped, glaring at her. "It's not _my_ fault that I'm better at dishing out threats than you!"

"How dare you," Aubrey James growled, stepping forward and in front of his wife, "threaten my beloved! But why should I be so surprised? You've done less than honorable things in—"

"Seriously?" Sylvia questioned. "If any one is to blame for the monsters running amuck, it's not Strange—it's you. _You_ supplied the bodies. You're the phenomenal dick who decided he wanted to put all the baddies in Arkham; they all ended up in Indian Hill, more fucked up than they started out with!"

"I did not turn them into what they are now."

"You _made_ Arkham what it is and it was _you_ who put Strange in charge of it all. The people in Arkham are _your_ responsibility."

"You're friends with half of them!" James snapped. "What does that say about _you_?"

"Like _your_ friends aren't fucked up either?" Sylvia retorted, gesturing to him.

"You're out of order—"

"I'm out of order? _Yo_ _ur_ wife came at me first, talking about how I'm going to be mortified and humiliated by the end of this election. What the fuck do you call that—a peace offering!"

The crowd gasped.

"I said no such thing!" Mrs. James exclaimed, glancing embarrassingly at the news reporters who flashed their cameras, scribbled furiously on their notepads, and pushed their audio tape recorders in front of other reporters.

Meanwhile, Oswald and Butch stood near the back, looking on.

Butch leaned into Oswald, saying, "Should we put to stop to this?"

"I think she's doing fine by herself, to be honest." Oswald replied calmly. "Personally, out of my own self-preservation, I am by no means willing to clamor to the podium and get in the middle of this fight."

"Those women are really going at it," Butch muttered. "How can this be good for your campaign?"

"The battle of the First Ladies," said Oswald sheepishly. "It'd happen eventually. Mayoral Candidates try to outdo each other. Meanwhile the families of each mayoral candidate try to show that _their_ family is better."

"Sylvia's swearing at the former mayor of Gotham," Butch reminded. "How's that proving you're better?"

"Have you been observing at all, Butch? Look at how the people respond."

Sure enough, as Mrs. James and Sylvia were arguing at it on the stage—or rather Mrs. James trying to look like the victim while also turning out to be the pathetic actress while Sylvia roasted the hell out of her facade—the crowd, although surprised by Sylvia's crass approach, seemed to dote on her more.

"Your father was a corrupted hooligan," Mrs. James managed through gasps and stutters, pointing at Sylvia.

"My _father_ was the best fucking District Attorney this city ever had. It's my _mother_ who was corrupted and a complete psychopath," Sylvia said harshly. "If you're going to slander my family's name, at least get your fucking facts straight, you ignorant little twat!"

"Now, see, here, you can't talk to my wife like that," Aubrey James argued.

"She started the argument, _Aubrey_ ," Sylvia sneered. "If she couldn't take the heat, she shouldn't have lit the match."

"You're out of order, Cobblepot!"

"No, _you're_ out of order, and you're out of your depth!"

Butch said quietly to Oswald, "Are you sure we can't intervene. It's getting a little out of hand—out of control, I mean."

"She's not out of control, trust me," said Oswald with a cunning smile. "She's playing the game."

"If you say so."

"You are a liar, a deceiver, and a—" Mrs. James began, but she was stammering to find another word.

"Fuck you, Dina," Sylvia snapped, "I am a _lot_ of things, but I am _not_ a liar. You know what, I'm done with this conversation. It's over, and I'm walking away. You two are so fucking petty, I can't even bother expending another ounce of energy on you guys."

"You threaten my family," said Aubrey James, as his wife cried behind him, "And expect to just walk away?"

"I've done nothing more than say my piece," said Sylvia. She looked at the cops, adding, "Officers, have I done anything illegal?"

They shook their heads.

"See?" Sylvia told James. "Nothing. Now you and your pretend-to-cry Wife can leave, knowing I mean you no physical or emotional harm."

"I'm not going anywhere," James snapped.

"Then stay here. What the fuck do I care? I've got an appointment to keep, so, excuse me. Demetri…" Sylvia said, waving him over.

Ready to help in anyway possible, Demetri took her hand and helped her down the stairs. Sylvia moved past the news reporters, all of whom stormed towards the podium to get another quote from the James' couple, and stopped when she saw Oswald and Butch.

Behind her, the crowd was screaming louder 'COBBLEPOT, COBBLEPOT', a sure fire response to the argument that had happened on stage and would surely be broadcasted on air for all the voters to see.

She kissed Oswald briefly on the lips.

"You did beautifully, Pigeon," He whispered.

"I thought that'd be one for the show," Sylvia snickered. "I'm going to the obstetrician. I'll be back by lunch."

"Be careful, darling."

"Always am," she sighed, and she left with Demetri, who opened her car door before he settled into the driver's seat.


	29. Bounty

Chapter 29: Bounty

Author's Note: Another thank you to fangirl500 for your review on the last chapter. Here's another one :)

* * *

" _The baby is doing_ fine, _Mrs. Cobblepot. You're twenty-six weeks in…_ "

Sylvia recalled what the obstetrician told her. She rubbed her belly gently, feeling the bump beneath her shirt. Demetri was driving her to Jim Gordon's house. The worry she had for Ivy Pepper's disappearance had gone from an unsettling acknowledgement to one of deep concern.

" _Your baby's hearing is fully developed…Has she been reacting to sound?" The doctor asked._

" _Yes, especially loud ones. Door slams, loud voices…gunfire."_

"Gun fire _?"_

" _Hypothetically speaking, of course," Sylvia had quickly responded to assuage the doctor's concern._

" _What kind of music do you listen to?"_

" _Mostly classical. She seems to like Vivaldi and Tchaikovsky."_

" _She'll move in rhythm with the music. Have you felt it?"_

" _Yes, I have." Sylvia answered, knowing this to be true. "She likes when either I or her father sing to her."_

" _That's good to hear. Babies often start having a pattern of sleeping and waking. Have you felt any of this?"_

" _She wakes up in the middle of the night, sometimes while punching me in the ribs," Sylvia said tiredly, smiling though in spite of her exhaustion. "I think she's something of a night owl."_

" _Are you?"_

" _Yes."_

" _Your daughter is following_ your _habits, Mrs. Cobblepot. If you want to stop that incessant kicking in the middle of the night, I suggest going to bed at a normal time."_

" _I'll consider it."_

" _Yes...yes…Are you experiencing any heart burn or indigestion?"_

" _I've stopped eating tacos—does that help?"_

" _So that's a 'yes' then."_

" _Not one for joking, are you, doctor?"_

" _Not really."_

" _I can tell."_

Sylvia smiled as Demetri put on the radio to assuage the silence. While Demetri had become comfortable in the past month to Sylvia's occasional quiet moments, he seemed unable to tolerate it very long. After adjusting the knob on the radio for a period of time, there was a station that featured more talk than music; this seemed to be a station that Demetri favored out of all of them.

"Is this okay?" Demetri asked nervously.

"It's fine." Sylvia said, nodding.

" _Have you considered any names for the child?" asked the doctor conversationally as he slathered cold gel over her stomach and pressed the cold surface of the transducer above her belly button._

" _Not yet." Sylvia answered, as she watched the figure of her daughter appear on the CPU display, the essence of arms and legs slowly moving. "We've been a little busy recently."_

" _It'll get busier when she gets here."_

" _I_ know _that." Sylvia scoffed._

 _After a moment of tension-filled silence, the doctor said lightly, "What names do_ you _like, Mrs. Cobblepot?"_

" _I like Celeste…Allegra…maybe Diana…"_

" _Diana is nice."_

" _Diana is a thought. I wouldn't name her that though."_

" _Why not?"_

" _That's my mother's name."_

" _Do I dare to ask why?"_

" _My mother was a cunt, and she's dead," said Sylvia lightly—her nonchalance regarding the matter made the doctor look at her curiously, although a bit taken aback. "She never wanted children. I suppose that's the difference between us. She didn't want her kids._ I do. _"_

" _Well, I suppose this baby is lucky then."_

" _Lucky how?"_

" _She's going to be born to two people who already love her very much," said the doctor appreciatively. "I couldn't ask for anything more."_

Demetri followed the road in central Gotham, his eyes glancing left and right at the cars in front of them, but his glance moved quickly to Sylvia, who was in her own trance. There was no indication that she was watching to make sure he was taking all the right turns, but at the same time, he had no intention of disturbing her.

Still…

"Miss Sylvia, is this the road?" asked Demetri timidly.

Sylvia shook her head, shaking herself out of her own deep reverie, and looked around quickly.

"Take the next left," she said gently. "After, you'll take another left, and then Jim's place is about three apartment buildings down."

"Sure, sure." Demetri responded quickly, slowly turning the wheel as he markedly followed through with her directions.

Sylvia watched the road for a moment before turning to Demetri, saying, "What do you think about this election?"

"What do I think?" He repeated uncertainly. "I'm not…"

"It's not a trick, kid. I just want to know what you think. And please, be brutal."

Demetri chuckled nervously, his uncertainty no more put to rest than his weary thoughts. After turning the next left, he parked a few spaces from the building that Sylvia referenced as her brother's apartment complex, turned off the car, and sat back in his seat, hands still on the steering wheel.

He licked his lips warily, a little perspiration dotting his forehead.

"Well, Miss Sylvia…I think that this election will be one that the people will never forget."

"Wow, what a good answer," Sylvia mused. "A chickenshit one, but a good answer. Come along."

"Do you want me to come in?"

"Not unless you don't want to."

"It's Detective Gordon…he won't mind if I—"

"He's my _brother_ , 'Mitri." (The use of his nickname she'd given him made Demetri smile a little.) "And he's not a detective anymore," said Sylvia carelessly as she opened the door to the complex. "If he has any objection to you being with me…well, it won't matter because I'm not here on pleasure anyway. Just business."

"Business, huh?"

"Yes, so come along."

"Alright." Demetri said, nodding, and he entered through the door right behind her.

They walked a number of stairs, and Sylvia stopped at the door, knocking sharply. There was a shift of movement, then the door opened and revealed Jim Gordon, appearing less than thrilled that Sylvia was popping in again.

"You're here." He said flatly.

"I'm here." She returned, smirking. "Got anyone in there I might need to know about? Are all people dressed and presentable?"

"Don't be coy, Vee. It's just me." Jim said, stepping aside to allow entry to the two people standing at the door. When he locked it, Jim glanced over Demetri, saying, "Who are you, then?"

"Jim, this is Demetri." Sylvia introduced as she sauntered into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. "Demetri, meet the _infamous_ Bounty Hunter, James Gordon."

"Your reputation proceeds you," Demetri said hastily, offering his hand.

"Thanks." Jim grunted, and he shook it although he looked him over again, adding, "You're pretty young…"

"I'm eighteen. An adult."

"You think so, I bet," Jim said hoarsely, nodding respectfully but walking away with wide eyes and a low whistle. "Have a seat. Have…a drink, I guess."

Sylvia smiled innocently as she opened a can of Diet Coke, handing a Dr. Pepper to Demetri, who—after glancing honestly at Jim and once the former detective sent a glance of approval—opened the can and downed three large gulps as though he hadn't drank anything in a few days.

The three sat in the living room, a coffee table separating Jim from his guests.

"So," Jim sighed. "I imagine you're here to talk about Vale."

"About your fuck buddy? No thanks," Sylvia chuckled. "I'm too aware of what you and Miss Thang do on the regular, and I don't care to hear the deets."

"So if you're not here to criticize my relationship with Vale…"

"I'm here on business."

"Business?"

"Yep." Sylvia nodded, after drinking from her can. "You're a bounty hunter, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

"I need you to find someone for me."

"Why don't you get your imps to do it for you?" asked Jim, sending a look of disgruntled animosity towards Demetri who pretended not to see it.

"They have their own work to take care of. And _you_ don't have anything on the pay roll at the moment, do you?" Jim said nothing so Sylvia added, "That's what I thought."

"Who are you looking for?" asked Jim seriously, leaning back in his seat. "Someone who didn't pay you? Maybe someone who popped off?"

"A girl. Ivy Pepper."

"Mario's kid?"

"Mm-hm."

Jim sighed, leaning back in his seat. "Why are you looking for her?"

"It's nothing to do with you, I can promise you that. She was working for me—"

"You have _kids_ working for you!" Jim exclaimed, standing up.

"I have a _lot_ of people working for me recently," Sylvia said calmly as she remained sitting, looking up at him. "Ivy's pretty skilled at spying. It was she, who found out that Delilah was my spy. Strange's monsters came to town, she disappeared. A few months have passed, and she's still missing. I want to know where she's gone, and I want to know who the kidnappers are, if any. For that, I'll pay you." (Jim slowly sat down.) "If I knew what kind of danger she was in, or who might have taken her, I would name my price. Since I don't know the risk, you get to name _yours_. Fair enough?"

Jim frowned, clenching his fists together as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. He peered down at the coffee table, mindful of his own theories about what might have happened to an orphan like Ivy Pepper.

Demetri cleared his throat, leaned to the side so he spoke only to Sylvia, and said, "Do you care if I step out….?"

"Sure. Go to the car. I'll be there shortly." Sylvia empathized, patting his wrist.

He nodded dutifully then left the apartment. Jim looked after him, then turned to her in response.

"Is that the one that cut his arm open to prove something to you?" Jim questioned, obviously unhappy.

"The same."

"I'm guessing he's proven himself to you?"

"To me, yes. Oswald's still a little finicky 'bout him."

"Not to spin it to his credit," said Jim suspiciously, "but I can see why. He doesn't look like a trustworthy type."

"Do any of us, really?" Sylvia responded, understanding. "So far, he's been supportive, very encouraging, and rather helpful."

"Why do you want to find Ivy so badly? Why not try finding her yourself?" asked Jim briskly. "You have all these skells _bowing_ down at your feet, ready to kiss your hand when the opportunities come knocking. If you have them search Gotham far and wide, I'm sure they'd be able to find her—and it'd be cheaper for you."

"You don't give yourself enough credit," chuckled Sylvia, smiling at him despite his patronizing tone. "You used to be a detective. A very good one—still are, if you applied yourself, and got over the fact that you blame the GCPD for whatever happened with Lee…but let's not get into that argument…"

Jim's face fell, and she noticed.

"What's wrong?" She asked.

"Lee's back."

"I know she is."

"How do _you_ know?" Jim asked, his expression, blank.

"Harvey told me."

"Harvey didn't tell _me_." Jim retorted, a little snarl creeping to his upper lip. "I went to the GCPD to get paid and there she was—popped up out of no where."

"He probably didn't want you to know."

"She took the job of M.E. and he didn't think I'd find out," Jim scoffed. "I'm feeling the confidence _now_."

"Get off the high road, James. We both know how much Lee meant to you, how much she still means to you," said Sylvia darkly. "You want to prove it? tell her now."

"She's got a fiance."

"So? _Fuck him_. So she has an engagement to attend—Fuck it. Fuck him and fuck anyone who thinks they can stand between you and Lee—you two were the **golden** couple. Shit, I mean, I thought it would take more than an imprisonment and a miscarriage to break up the two of you!" Sylvia said, getting to her feet and gesticulating to the door. "You want Lee? If you want her _—_ go _get_ her: literally, no one is stopping you. Fuck, you know, she's probably waiting for you to say something to her anyway, you might as well tell her what you feel!"

"It's not like that," Jim said gruffly, standing to meet her—incidentally, looming over her due to their height difference. "She's moved on. So…so have I."

"Yeah, you've moved on," Sylvia returned, unconvinced. "You're fucking a news reporter, hiding in a broken down apartment that barely has any hot water, living paycheck to paycheck by bringing in Strange's experimental left overs, and you say you've 'moved on'."

Jim frowned, looking away, hands on his hips as he strode away from Sylvia for a few minutes.

"You still love her, Jim," said Sylvia, her voice softened. "You're pretending you don't so it doesn't hurt as much but I _know_ you do! Either let her know what you're feeling or…"

"Or what?"

"Let her go."

"I thought you said you came here on business." Jim said gruffly, looking at her pointedly.

"I did. You're the one who brought her up." Sylvia reminded. "My issue is finding Ivy. Yours is telling Lee that you love her before she finally ties the knot with whomever the fuck this guy is. Out of those two problems, which of the two is the easiest to solve first, Detective?"

"They're different issues."

"Maybe. But that doesn't take away from the fact that you're too chickenshit to tell Lee what you really feel because _you_ think she'll reject you. And you leave empty-handed, forever alone in this world or maybe the next—if you believe in that sort of thing."

"I'll want the same amount for finding Pepper as the GCPD pays me for the monsters," Jim barked. "Five-thousand dollars."

"Done." Sylvia agreed starkly.

With the fight looming between them, an argument clearly unresolved and Jim no longer in the mood to indulge, Sylvia started walking out of the apartment, but stopped the moment there was a knock on the door.

"Get behind me." Jim cautioned.

"Don't have to tell _me_ twice."

As she did, Jim approached the door, and opened it. Outside was a man with a top hat placed delicately atop tangles of smooth, wavy medium brown hair, a mustache and well-trimmed beard of the same color. He had the darkest pair of eyes Sylvia had ever seen, and when he addressed Jim, he said happily, "Tea?"

In two hands, he held a thin plastic cup filled with the aforementioned contents. Jim surveyed him with an indifferent expression, then he stepped aside so that the gentleman could enter. When he did, he came in contact with Sylvia, who eyed him suspiciously.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry, sir," the man said with a tone as sincere as his apology. "I did not realize you were entertaining any guests this evening."

"I didn't think I would be either," Jim consoled pleasantly. "Mr. Tetch, this is my sister, Sylvia Cobblepot. Sylvia, this is—"

"Jervis Tetch, the world- _renowned_ hypnotist." Sylvia finished, smirking as she approached him.

Tetch and Jim exchanged curious if not perplexed glances, which amused her.

"My associates tell me you're highly recommended," Sylvia explained. "You dabble in illusions and magic."

"Ah, are your associates Miss Kean and Ms. Galavan, per chance?"

"The same."

"I think they're the most colorful architects of entertainment I've yet to meet."

"That's because you have no one else to compare them to… _yet_ ," Sylvia retorted confidently, making Tetch raise an eyebrow provocatively while she moved by him and addressed her brother.

"If you can find her," Sylvia told Jim as she handed a thick envelope, referring to Ivy, "by all means, the sooner rather than later. If you find anything—good or bad—please let me know. Either way, here's the money, so please…full disclosure?"

"Full disclosure." Jim agreed seriously. "And the means?"

"You know me," she said, shrugging her right shoulder. "I'm a 'by any means necessary' kind of gal. But I think you already knew that, Jimmy. Call me, text me—but do let me know, 'kay?"

"Sure thing."

"Mr. Tetch?" She addressed him.

Tetch smiled, saying, "Yes, ma'am?"

"Can I have a business card of yours, or something?" Sylvia asked politely, standing just a few inches away so she could smile up at him. "I might have an opening on Thursday night, a space to be filled. I've heard such great things about you, I figured if you were available you wouldn't mind bringing your illusions to my club."

"I'd be more than flattered." Tetch indulged, sliding a hand inside the innermost pocket of his coat and handing one to her.

She read off the holographic imagery, "'The Great Jervis Tetch: Hypnotist Extraordinaire.' Well…" She smirked up at him. "I hope you didn't just jot that down for advertisement purposes. I expect some showmanship."

"You won't be disappointed." Tetch promised.

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Mr. Tetch." Sylvia said, sending him a crooked grin before she smiled sweetly at Jim. "Bye-bye, love you, Jimmy."

"Love you too." Jim returned quickly, smiling when she waved 'bye'. He closed the door, and then turned to see Jervis Tetch mindfully watching him with what could only be described as 'pleasant amusement'.

"That's your sister, Mr. Gordon?" Tetch inquired.

"To both my misfortune and blessings, yes, she is." Jim said cynically as he opened the top of his cup of tea so that he could pour a little whiskey inside. "I hope she didn't put you off. She has a way of making people uncomfortable. Most of the time, it's for her own amusement."

"On a contrary, I find her 'enchanting.'"

"That's a new one." Jim laughed, shaking his head. He looked at Tetch, realized he was serious and he cleared his throat, saying, "How did you find me, Mr. Tetch?"

"You're famous, Mr. Gordon. The fearless Bounty Hunter. It's in the papers, and, clearly, even your family seek out your ability and your counsel."

There was a moment of praise, but then Tetch became more serious, his eyes taking on a darker color; his voice, a tone of dread and arbor.

"I want you to find my sister," He said. "We're very close. We lost our parents at an early age. I became her guardian. But…her condition proved too much for me. I sought help—the worst kind: The fiend, Professor Strange."

"Her condition?" Jim inquired.

"Some poison in her blood. Very rare. Very _unique._ He took her in. He said she needed 'constant supervision'. He wouldn't let me see her."

"That's not uncommon," said Jim, grudgingly.

"Sir?"

"For a time," Jim explained, "my brother-in-law was placed in Arkham. He was under Strange's care for months at a time. During his stay there, my sister was unable to see her own husband—no matter how insistent or annoying she proved to be, no matter what she did, Strange refused. She's not the first, nor were you, to have that kind of treatment. It's Strange's signature: Not to let family members see the sick or the fragile. It was his code, his way."

"And you approve?"

"Of course, I don't." Jim said calmly. "Did you go to the police by any chance?"

"Useless," Tetch said politely. "This is Gotham, after all."

"You're not the first to say that.".

"The years passed, and I lost hope." Tetch continued further. "But then I heard about the break-out. I assume that my sister escaped with the others. Now she is out there, alone. Afraid."

"Indian Hill escapees are five grand if they get brought to the GCPD. Are you able to top that?"

As though waiting to bring out his weaponry, Tetch easily reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a huge neatly bundled wad of bills, and said assuredly, "I can double it."

More inclined to help a stranger in need, Jim said, "I'll see what I can do!"

"Thank you very much, Mr. Gordon," said Tetch as he handed him the money clip. "You'll be doing me a grand favor. I imagine you understand how it feels as you have a sister of your own."

"With one difference," said Jim humorously. "As you put it, your sister is 'alone, afraid'. I sometimes wish _mine_ would find herself in a similar situation. Might humble her a little."

"Be careful what you wish for," lamented Tetch. "Often times, what we wish for ends up being the thing we never wanted to begin with. Your sister…" (he glanced at the door as though looking through it) "seems—in the few minutes I've interacted with her—surefooted, strong-headed, resourceful, and self-reliant. I doubt she became that person without going through a few trials of her own. Seeing as she is all of these things, your wish is less likely to come true. But still…why would you allow that kind of luck to follow?"

"You've got a point, Tetch."

As Tetch began to leave, he stopped and glanced back at him.

"You've been through much pain and tragedy, Mr. Gordon. I hope it hasn't left you too alone." He said, his eyes and voice full of mystique. And then he left.


	30. I Bet My Life

Chapter Thirty: I Bet My Life

Author's Note: Oh my goodness, so many reviews in so little time! Thank you very much, I'm so grateful :'-) To the Guest, that has left this long essay of a review, who ever you are, you've inspired me to write further. Bless your heart. To the readers who have been with me since Day One when I wrote the first installment, I love you all! Thank you :) Muah!

* * *

After paying off Jim to find Ivy (whether it would have a positive result or not), Sylvia returned to the mansion with Demetri holding an umbrella over her head.

It had been beautiful outside: not a single cloud to be seen. However, in less than ten minutes, the sky became a dismal gray and opened its mouth to a downpour. As she quickly moved into the mansion, opening the door only long enough so that Demetri could run in after her, Sylvia sighed in disgust as she held out her arms.

Water droplets rolled off her fingertips; her hair was doused as though she'd just come out of a shower. Meanwhile, Demetri was chuckling to himself as he shook off his own raincoat, hanging it on the coat rack behind the door.

"That Gotham Weather Forecasting staff all need to be _fired_." Sylvia grumbled, peeling off her coat. Demetri took it from her, hanging it on the rack along with the his. "'Sunny skies all week', my ass."

"The weather's as unpredictable as the crime." Demetri tried to defend the newscast.

"If that's the case, it should be pretty fucking predictable."

"Well, Miss Sylvia, the good thing about being indoors is that you'll eventually dry off. If you want, I can help Miss Olga with dinner and…" Demetri began, but Sylvia strode past him, waving her hand.

"Don't worry about it. Dinner will be fine. Olga's proficient in the kitchen; she doesn't need help."

"If you want, I can prepare a bath for you."

"What I want, kid, is to get out of these clothes and into something _dry_. If you're smart, you'll change too," Sylvia told him, smiling appreciatively. "You'll catch your death if you don't."

"Yes, Ma'am."

As he left to his own quarters, Sylvia watched him leave before doing the same.

She closed the bedroom door, took out a pair of sweatpants and a tank top, and dressed down. For a moment, she considered just climbing into bed. The comforter itself seemed to remind her just how exhausting her day had been—what with Aubrey James and his _lovely_ wife ('the fucking cunt', she thought), her public accusations of Sylvia and Oswald's alleged atrocities, and the visit to the obstetrician—the idea of just going to bed was more tempting than Sylvia cared to admit.

She sat on the edge of the bed, her bare bum on the sheets.

Feeling comfortable was starting to become a luxury, at this point. Suddenly remorseful for having such a bitter thought, Sylvia placed a hand on her belly, hoping that her daughter hadn't somehow telepathically heard her.

But it was true.

She still had at least another four or five months of this left and her discomfort was constant.

Sylvia's clothes didn't fit as snugly as they used to. Feeling sexy was a luxury, for sure. She'd bought other clothes—not necessarily 'maternity' ones but they were different.

Forget clothes.

She hadn't had caffeine, alcohol, or cigarettes in such a long time— _damn_ , she missed it. Knowing she couldn't have it made her want it more.

To be most comfortable, she slipped on her sweatpants, pulling them up, first from the ankle then slowly shimmying them up to her hips. Fuck panties—who really needed them, you know. Fuck bras too—she'd go braless…her tits felt sore most of the time. What use was a bra? It wouldn't help.

Black sweats. Red tank top. She wouldn't wear her slippers.

'Fuck slippers, too,' She thought apathetically, '…Men and women were meant to walk barefoot anyway.'

There was a knock on the door.

" _What_?" Sylvia sighed, thinking it was Demetri or someone else asking if there was anything else they could do for her.

"It's me."

She could recognize his voice—no matter how loud or softly her love spoke.

"You know you don't have to knock every time the door is closed, right?" Sylvia asked as Oswald stepped in. "You've seen me naked _hundreds_ of times."

"A gentleman knocks when a lady's door is shut." He said respectfully, minding the door itself before coming into the room completely, after shutting it with a soft 'click'.

Sylvia continued to sit on the edge of the bed. For once, her discomfort was no longer on the brain. Instead, she noticed him. And something more primal.

Oswald was in a suit (no surprise, there) but he looked more _debonair_. His hair looked feathery, more like it used to in its own 'disco vampire' sense. His suit had a menage of royal blue, a particular gold and navy blue pocket square neatly crested on his left side. He came strolling in with the ebony-glossed cane, the penguin-shaped handle held loosely in his right hand.

"You look beautiful," Oswald told her with a small smile, discreetly peering down at her toes, polished black, then resting his gaze upon her own.

"I'm wearing sweats," Sylvia pointed out flatly. "Not exactly 'glamorous' over here."

Ignoring her half-attempt of waving away his compliment, Oswald placed his left hand in his pocket, looking thoughtfully at the ground, then at her.

His behavior was curious, if not perplexing. Sylvia looked at him closely, eyes narrowing and her eyebrows, furrowed.

"What's going on?" She asked lightly.

"I've been doing some thinking." Oswald explained. He walked towards her, placing his cane alongside the bedpost so he could sit on her right side.

"You? Thinking? _Shocking_ news."

Oswald smiled at her joke, but his grin sobered.

"It occurs to me," He continued, "that I never asked if you would be comfortable with my becoming Mayor of Gotham." He met her eyes, adding, "'Placing my name in the hat' as the phrase goes, becoming a candidate in the running election. It all just sort of…happened."

"And you wonder if I may disagree?" Sylvia questioned knowingly, "Or that I may think that I don't want that sort of pressure on our marriage? Or perhaps you feel that running Gotham's Underworld isn't enough responsibility, and that by taking on the role of Mayor _and_ King of Gotham, I will initially be understanding of your new responsibilities but may eventually resent you for it, because you may no longer have time for me or your unborn daughter?"

Oswald blinked. He opened his mouth to quickly assuage whatever feelings she'd placed in the open, but Sylvia interrupted him: her lips pressed against his, and whatever guilt she may have laid on him was briefly pushed to the side.

The kiss was soft and tender, and the single one became many; he reciprocated each and every one of them. When it naturally broke, Oswald gazed at her, taken aback, but pleasantly surprised.

"You're going to be a very busy man," Sylvia told him gently. "You're going to be _swamped_ by politician and gangster alike. And running Gotham as Mayor _and_ running Gotham's Underworld…baby, it's going to be one chaotic mess. But I think you can do it."

"Do you?" Oswald asked.

Oh, boy. That self-doubt was creeping in, apparently.

"Aubrey James ran Gotham for almost ten years," Oswald said quietly, glancing from her to the floor in pressing thought. "People know what I've done—theoretically or otherwise."

"Sweetheart…"

"There are ten million people in the city. How can I convince _all_ of them to—"

"Sweetie."

" _What_?" Oswald snapped impatiently.

She nuzzled his cheek with her nose, and whispered, "I believe in you."

Oswald asked, "So you're fine with this? All of it?"

"It'll take time getting used to," She said with a smile, "I don't particularly care for the idea that your attention will be divided among the rest of the rabble, but then again, you know me. I'm the jealous type."

Oswald smiled when she sent him a flirtatious wink, and he idly gazed at her as she reclined on the bed, eyes looking forward, up at the ceiling.

"I don't care much for politics, to be honest," Sylvia sighed. "I don't know how much help I'll be with your mayoral campaign, but I'll still be running the underworld right alongside of you, if that's what you're asking. Personally, I think it's best if I stay out of it. I don't know if you couldn't tell, but I fucking despise Mrs. James. That woman is a fucking cunt, and I'll be happy to see her get publicly humiliated when you win the election."

Oswald chuckled, "I think everyone could tell that you don't care for the woman."

"I'd chop her head off with a guillotine if the French would let us borrow one." Sylvia vowed, mimicking a slicing motion with her hand over her throat to indicate its brutality. "God, I couldn't stand her."

"That much was obvious."

"Was I _that_ transparent?" She joked.

"Like a glass window, dear."

"Mm. I hope it didn't damage your chances."

"I think the odds are in my favor," Oswald said with a sly grin. "And you're very aware of what you've done."

"Oh, I'm _very_ aware of what I did. He played games in the past, and his wife happily went along with it. That makes her complicit in every crooked game _he_ has ever played. Before your past or mine gets flung up in our faces, I thought it was only fair that the James' have the same thing done to them. Granted, if the crowd didn't know before, I'm sure they know now."

"That James is a crooked politician?"

"What? Oh no, _everyone_ knows that. I meant that Mrs. James is a fucking twat." Sylvia said happily. "Pretending like she's all pristine and fucking shiny—I don't have time for that. And neither does anyone else."

Oswald smiled, watching Sylvia wriggle to get more comfortable on her back. His gaze hovered over her comfy black sweats, then up to her noticeable braless tank top before meeting her gaze. Thoughtfully, he stood, taking off his dress jacket and laying it down neatly on the bed before lying down on his back right beside her.

"Blue looks good on you," Sylvia commented, glancing at the azure vest he wore over his usual long-sleeved white-collared shirt. "Brings out your eyes."

"That, and brocade."

"No argument there." She agreed.

"Where's Demetri?"

"Downstairs," Sylvia answered nonchalantly.

"Doing what exactly?"

"Trying to help Olga with dinner."

"He won't succeed."

"I tried telling him that," Sylvia laughed. "All she'll do is kick him out of the kitchen and mumble something Russian under her breath."

"She never needs help."

"I told him that too," She sighed, "But Demetri's determined to help anyone he can." She smirked, glancing sideways at Oswald, adding, "He'd probably help you with _your_ errands if you allowed him to."

"I already told you…"

"You don't trust him." Sylvia recalled. "I know."

"I still can't understand why you keep him around."

"He's helpful."

"So is Butch."

"Butch thinks himself above being an errand boy." Sylvia told him. "Besides, Butch seems more than content to be your sidekick. So do you."

Oswald heard her passive tone, and turned his head to look at her pointedly, asking, "What is that supposed to mean?"

Sylvia smiled in spite of his defensive reaction, saying, "Gabe."

"What about him?"

"You pushed him to the wayside."

"I did not—"

Sylvia sent him a look, to which Oswald couldn't properly respond and he turned his head so he could mindfully peer up at the ceiling.

"Perhaps I did," Oswald admitted. "You can see why I don't need him much anymore, though, can't you? Butch is more competent. He doesn't think _often_ , but he _does_ at least think occasionally."

"So he's not a moron. That's what you're saying."

"Sure," Oswald scoffed.

"I'm sure he'd love to hear that."

"What's your point?"

"You play 'favorites'," Sylvia told him. "Your flavor of the month is the person who is most useful to you, depending on whatever time or day you need them, and whatever purpose you need them for. Butch seems to take precedence. Meanwhile, Gabe is feeling a little…well, I guess, 'unappreciated'. He needs something to do."

"I treat my men the same."

"Do you?"

"I do," Oswald insisted.

"If Galavan hadn't dropped him like yesterday's 'Good Housekeeping' magazine, Butch wouldn't be in your employ. You'd still be asking Gabe to crack skulls instead of His-One-Mallet-Wonder." Sylvia stated, and she looked at him, adding, "To be frank: Your men are getting _bored,_ therefore, getting impatient and litigious."

Oswald said incredulously (as well as with some annoyance), "How do you _know_ any of this? Do my men _talk_ to you?"

"Everyone talks to me." Sylvia responded easily. "See, my people hang out with your people. Your people tell my people they're getting bored, that they want more to do. When your people talk to my people, _my_ people talk to **me** where, thereafter, I talk to you—just as we are doing now. That's how the Chain of Command works."

She sat up a little so she could lie on her side, supported by an elbow. She looked down at him, some of her hair falling over a shoulder; the rest, behind her back.

"I leave it to the king," Sylvia uttered softly, "to decide what to do next."

"I have no use for Gabe." Oswald told her plainly.

"I can have him work for my club," She offered. "I get enough rowdy customers for one evening, it's usually a day-event. He can be happy there. Unless, you want to swap."

"This isn't a trade, Pigeon." Oswald told her.

Then he paused.

"Who did you have in mind?" He asked.

"You _know_ who."

"Absolutely not."

"You won't even give him a chance?" Sylvia asked. "It's been _weeks_ since I had Delilah killed, and literally, in that time, Demetri has been nothing but remorseful and loyal. He's living in the house for Christ's sake. He's with me everywhere I go—and you still don't trust him?"

"You're right, I don't trust him." Oswald told her. "You have legitimate and tangible proof—evidence that at one point or another, he was going to turn against you. Yet, you still let him live. That's illogical. It doesn't make _any_ sense."

"You've spoken to him."

"I have."

"And didn't he seem to understand your threat?"

"I think he took it to heart, yes," Oswald returned.

"And yet, you still think he'll turn traitor."

"I think he _is_ a traitor, and he's just buying time until your guard is down." He said with forced calm. "Both Brittany and Delilah did the same. After buying the act a second time, I'd hope you'd see your error before it happens a third time."

"If he bothers you so much, why don't you just kill him?"

"Well, how can I do that, if you won't let me?" Oswald asked, sitting up.

"I'm not stopping you." Sylvia reminded. "He's downstairs, _right now_. No one to defend him, and I know—for a fact—he doesn't carry a gun or a blade, so have it. You want to put your paranoia to rest, then fucking kill him. Or trust my judgement. Either way, let's just be done with it so we can stop arguing about him."

Oswald stared at her, perhaps not having expected the discussion to take a turn for the worse. There was a long pause as he briefly considered heading downstairs to lay Demetri to waste, to silence that paranoid voice of his that he'd adopted through learning from Carmine Falcone after all those years serving under Fish. Perhaps that was the better call, wasn't it? Perhaps it was for the best to get rid of the traitor before Demetri had a chance to prove him right.

Oswald looked at Sylvia, uncertain.

"What is your attachment to him?" Oswald asked.

"Excuse me?"

Oswald said patiently, "You're one of the most intelligent people I've ever met, more perceptive about everyone else. You _know_ what Demetri would have done if Delilah hadn't been exposed—you know the potential he has for becoming….well, whatever it is you think he's fit to become. What's your reason for keeping him around?"

It was Sylvia's turn to become defensive. She stood up, and said frankly, "I'm not secretly in love with him, if _that's_ what you're implying."

"That's not what I was implying at all. Far from it, actually."

"It's not? That's what it sounded like to me!" Sylvia argued.

"Well, it's not."

"Because," she scoffed, "Let's be honest—it's not the first time you've been jealous of someone because I might like them."

She crossed her arms, and waited for Oswald's attack but it never came. Instead, oddly enough, he was patient.

Feeling as though she had overstepped a boundary, Sylvia uncrossed her arms, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, saying, "Okay…I might have gotten ahead of myself for assuming that."

"Perceptive of everyone else, but _yourself_." Oswald enunciated, smiling in spite of the situation. "Dare I take a stab as to why you keep this stray of yours around, in _spite_ of all the evidence and theories pointing to the fact that you should let him go?"

"Stab away, Genius."

"You see yourself in him." Oswald guessed.

Sylvia began to argue, but was he wrong?

Although he was soft-spoken, wasn't Demetri nearly a spitting reflection of herself? Smart, doting, honest…underappreciated in a sense that he could be so much more powerful and stronger if only given the chance to show his metal?

"Forget the intuitive implications," Sylvia muttered, embarrassed by her own blinded perception. "Forget all of it, Oswald. The man is homeless—he has no where to go. And when it comes down to it, he just wants to show how grateful he is for us taking him in, and making him feel useful. That's all anyone wants, isn't it? To feel useful? To feel appreciated? You, yourself, knows what it's like not to get credit when credit is due."

"So it's a charity thing?" Oswald questioned, although he wasn't too surprised by it.

"You can call it that." She relented. "He's sweet, and grateful. He followed Delilah because he saw a chance to get out of the rut he was in, to make a name for himself. Delilah was a dictating little shit—she controlled the roster and the schedule, and clearly, she was able to manipulate him. Loved her like a friend, up until the end."

"Are you certain he has no other connection to Delilah than being manipulated?" Oswald asked suspiciously.

"I'm certain of it. He's no longer under her spell."

"How certain?"

"I'd bet my life on it." Sylvia said bluntly.

And that seemed to do it. He held out his hands; she took them, stepping towards him, so she stood between his legs.

"Then that settles it." Oswald said lightly, looking up at her.

"I tell you that I trust Demetri enough that I'd bet my life on his loyalty, and suddenly you're peachy?" Sylvia asked curiously. "How does that even follow?"

"I trust him as far as I can throw him, and that's not far at all." Oswald told her unhappily. He kissed the inside of her wrist. His voice softened as he added, "But I trust _you_ , Pigeon."

Sylvia smiled, grinning down at him. Quietly, she asked, "Are we okay now?"

He answered her by touching each side of her face with the palm of his hands, bringing her closer to him so he could kiss her. When he did, Sylvia returned it, lightly parting her lips so that he could gain entry, which he obliged whole-heartedly. Slowly, she moved forward so that he was prompted to lie on his back.

When she clumsily collapsed onto him, they both laughed; the sound silenced the moment their lips touched again. Sylvia's legs straddled his, and her arms framed either side of his shoulders, locking him in. Oswald was unable to move out from beneath her. (Not that he wanted to.)

"How did the appointment go?" Oswald asked in between kisses.

"It went as well as could be expected. But we can talk about that later." Sylvia returned, and she slowly moved her hips downward and into him, putting into motion a slow, teasing grind between them.

"You don't want to talk about it n—"

"Later, baby."

Sylvia pulled off her tank top, starting the succession of taking off her clothes. Oswald watched her, slightly magnetized by how quickly she got off the bed so she could rip her sweatpants down to her ankles. He smirked when he saw just how eager she was to get him to match her, her fingers like lightning as they undid his belt. Figuring he might as well help her out, Oswald stood and while she undressed his lower half, he did away with his vest, and unbuttoned his shirt, laughing quietly when Sylvia pushed him back down on the bed once he was just as naked as she.

"Pigeon, you need to slow down." Oswald cautioned, his hands moved to her stomach.

"The baby's fine, Ozzie. Me, on the other hand: I'm not."

"Why, what's wrong?"

"I'm fucking horny over here, and you're concerned that my jumping around is bad for the baby." Sylvia told him. "She's _fine_."

Sylvia moved onto him, and he looked uncomfortable. _That_ was a first.

"What's wrong?" Sylvia asked, startled.

Oswald said uncertainly, "What if…"

"You won't hurt her." She reassured.

"This doesn't feel weird to you?" Oswald asked, perplexed.

Sylvia chuckled, "Why would it be weird?"

"Full disclosure, pet: It feels like we're having sex in front of our own daughter."

"She can't see anything."

"She can _hear_ though!".

Sylvia recognized that tone. He was not only worried about the safety of their unborn child, but the very idea that the first _memory_ of her new parents would be of hearing them have sex outside the womb. Oswald could really overthink things, couldn't he?

"Is it because she's facing you?" Sylvia asked, poking her stomach as she slowly moved off him so she no longer straddled him.

"I feel like she's looking at me."

"She can't see _anything_ outside of my womb, Oswald. It's not like I've drawn a face on my stomach and called it 'Wilson'."

Oswald stared at her.

She explained, "It's a reference to 'Castaway'."

He still stared at her.

"You know," Sylvia said, waving her hand. "The movie? Tom Hanks is in it."

"Pigeon—"

Sylvia sighed, crawling further up the bed. Oswald watched her curiously, not sure if she was appalled or entertained by his lack of movie trivia…or the entire situation as a whole.

"Turn off the lights," Sylvia said, motioning him. "Then come to bed."

Oswald did as he was instructed, and in the darkness, he voiced, "What is this supposed to accomplish?"

"Well, not to sound selfish or anything, but I'm still horny, and we're going to have sex one way or another so we're going to find a way around this." Sylvia's said from the darkness.

Oswald sat on the bed, his movement on the sheets rustling as he announced his approach. As he crawled to her, Sylvia reached out, touching his shoulders, guiding him so he lied on his side, realizing—after Sylvia had finished moving around—that she was also lying on her side. Oswald nuzzled the back of her neck affectionately, smiling when she pressed her back against his chest.

"How do you feel now?" Sylvia asked curiously.

"Admittedly, a lot better."

"Good."

Oswald snickered when her leg moved so he could anchor himself to close what little distance was between them; her eagerness, after all this time of being together, still amused him. Under the covers, with her naked body pressed so closely against him, he could feel himself getting hot and bothered.

"I feel you breathing on my neck," Sylvia murmured.

"Do you?"

"Mm-hmm…"

He took a handful of her long, ginger hair, moving it to her shoulder so he had all the access to her neck, finding her nape, kissing her there. Ever so softly, he blew into her ear and she shuddered against him.

"You like that, don't you," Oswald murmured, and hearing him so close to her, Sylvia shuddered in positive response.

He reached around, ghosting his fingertips over her sides; she responded in the same manner. Her quiet gasp that came after he cupped one of her breasts, gently teasing a nipple between his fingers made him smile. Her entire body seemed wholly sensitive, more keen to everything around her, including him.

"It's been a little while, hasn't it…?" Oswald said gently, only really realizing that was true the moment the words were spoken. A few weeks, at _least_.

"Mmmm…" Sylvia sighed. "It has…"

She turned her head; he felt the movement, and he met her lips with his. Soft, but deep kisses…it silenced whatever remorse Oswald felt for having waited this long to initiate anything for fear of hurting his unborn daughter. It seemed like such a petty fear now, compared to everything else that they'd encountered together.

A petty fear, especially when all he wanted to do now was show Sylvia just how much he was still attracted to her. The heat radiating from her body engulfed his own…the way she reacted to his every touch, every gesture…

"Turn towards me," Oswald told her.

"I thought you felt like she was watching you," Sylvia giggled.

"I'm far from caring about that now, Pet."

She shifted onto her other side, only realizing what he meant when she felt his erection between her legs, the head of his stiff cock standing at attention below her baby bump.

"Didn't take long," She teased quietly, nipping his bottom lip.

Oswald silenced her prolonged poking fun with a poke of his own. He slowly rubbed the head of his cock up and down between the slit of her sex, pleased to feel that she was just as hot and wet as he hoped. He lowered his left hand between them, just as slowly rubbing circles around her clit, feeling it become swollen as he did.

"Fuck..." She whimpered.

Oswald snickered, "Well, that's what I had in mind."

"You don't say, you cocky little—"

She let out a squeak when he pinched her clit; a shot of tingling, numbing electricity later, and Sylvia was breathless.

He kissed her neck, and murmured into her ear, "Now's not the time to decide to be a smart ass."

Sylvia nodded, and she moaned in appreciation when he continued to tease her clit with his thumb, his two other fingers slowly moved between the lips of her pussy, spreading her open, feeling just how wet she really was. She let out a slew of whimpers, her pelvis moving in rhythm as he gently moved his fingers in and out.

Sex with Sylvia was always an invigorating experience. It never was the same experience each time. And while the entirety was memorable, what Oswald enjoyed most were the reactions he pulled from her. Every soft, submissive moan he pulled out of that dominant, petulant mouth as she willingly gave herself to him.

A man could lose himself inside her, lost in that feeling.

"What do you want, Sylvia?" He asked knowingly; she was actively humping his hand at this point; her own hands either on his hip or in his hair, trying to persuade him to do what she wanted without having to speak the words themselves.

"Oswald, _please…_ Mm!"

Her moan became a gasp when he curled his fingers and found the spot that caused her to whine desperately for him. Just a taste, though, as he didn't linger there too long. He pulled his hand from her, feeling smug as she pushed her body against his, wanting more, _needing_ more.

"It's a helpless feeling, isn't it," Oswald uttered as Sylvia ran her hands all over him, her body aching for any part of him to touch her again. "I know exactly what strings to pull" (He took a handful of her hair in his hand and gently tugged; she moaned in response.) "And what buttons to press…"—He teased her clit with feather-like touches—"and, in minutes, you fall apart in front of me. You know it'll happen. You let it happen, time and time again…"

Sylvia was a wanton, breathless mess. Her hand dove down to his cock, stroking him in a desperate attempt to bait him into fucking her sooner, and Oswald couldn't help but smile.

"Helplessness is terrifying, isn't it?" Oswald asked her. Victorious.

"Yes, it is…" Sylvia moaned. "Fuck…"

Just as he was feeling pretty proud of himself, that feeling left. It was his fault, really—he'd forgotten how fast Sylvia could really move: pregnancy or no pregnancy. In less than ten seconds, she'd pulled out of his hypnotic touches, pushed him on his back, and pinned both of his hands above his head.

"You know what buttons and strings _I_ have," Sylvia told him, her own desire caught in her voice. "But you forget, my King, I also know _yours_."

Sylvia straddled him and, pressing her sex against his stiff cock, she heard him attempt to stifle an involuntary moan when he felt her wet heat.

Oswald felt her tongue lick his ear, her lips kiss that sweet spot along between his jaw and neckline. An intense feeling of need and his own helplessness attacked him as his arousal rivaled her own.

"You can tell me to stop anytime." Sylvia said, taking hold of his cock in her palm and rubbing the head of it between her legs so he could get a taste of what was to come. "But you won't. You _like_ this…being at my mercy. Just as I like being at yours. Helplessness isn't terrifying…" (She licked his ear again) "If you enjoy it."

"Pigeon…"

"Feeling 'weird' again?"

"No…I'm _way_ past that." Oswald admitted, his voice catching.

"Then what is it?" Sylvia asked innocently. "Honestly, I doubt I can hold out much longer, so if the next words out of your mouth aren't 'please fuck me', I don't want to hear—"

He grabbed her hips, and thrusted upward.

Sylvia sharply inhaled, biting her bottom lip when she felt his cock impale her—as wet as she was, he went in full force, and caught her g-spot.

Taking advantage of her surprise, Oswald seized his opportunity.

He pulled out, and shoved her off him. Sylvia was about to object; that was until he crawled onto her, grabbing her knees to spread them apart, and moving himself between them.

Sylvia raised her hands to him; he caught them, pinning her wrists just above her shoulders. Oswald expected Sylvia to use her physical strength against him, but as soon as he thrusted his cock inside of her, she was as submissive as before. Weak with desire and need.

Once he was sure she was down, his rhythm of quick thrusts slowed so he could feel every inch of her clamp onto his cock, every muscle, every fiber of her being. Listening to her whimpers and moans. Feeling her wrists offer little resistance as he held them loosely, pinning them down.

Her back arched, her neck craning back as her eyes closed in deep and longing satisfaction.

"That's it…" Oswald murmured. "Give yourself to me… _fuck_."

Sylvia wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper inside. He hesitated to lie on her, being vaguely aware that her baby bump was just beneath him.

"It's okay…" She whispered as though having felt his hesitation.

Gently, and as delicately as he could muster, Oswald slowly lowered his body onto hers so he could worry less about trying to brace himself above her, and more about feeling her around _him_.

But soon, slow steady thrusts became quick, forceful. She was close—he was closer. The climax so close that the threat of it fleeting felt more life-threatening at the moment than anything else that was comparable. Sylvia met hers, a slew of moans leaving her lips; he powered through her tight clenching (it felt _amazing_ ) and she met every thrust.

"I'm so close…" Oswald whimpered desperately. "Sylvia…"

She grabbed his hair, and yanked it back so his neck became exposed to her; she bit down on his throat and the surge of pain became numbed by the surge of tingles and electricity that quickly followed.

He lost control and when he did, Sylvia pushed him on his back, and crawled down quickly to his waist. She put her mouth around his cock, and began sucking.

Oswald could feel everything; as though the bones in his body liquidated and the only thing he could comprehend was that Sylvia was moaning around his cock, creating vibrations as she sucked every little ounce of him that was spent. For a moment, his mind blurred, and, for a longer moment, he had trouble catching his breath.

Once the combination of dopamine and endorphins had slowly started losing its strength, Oswald blinked and smiled widely in relief as Sylvia stood on her knees, crawling back up to the headboard. She licked her lips, looking more or less proud of herself.

"I thought I'd have to beg for that…" Oswald panted.

"I could tell what it was you needed," Sylvia said gently. Slyly, she added, "It's a good thing I knew what buttons to press."

Oswald smiled sheepishly, watching her as she settled beside him, lying on her side so she could snuggle close to him.

"How did you know?" Oswald asked.

"How did I know that in order to reach your climax that I needed to bite you?" Sylvia responded.

"Well, yes."

Sylvia smirked, saying, "You forget this quite frequently, Ozzie, but it's simple: I know you. Inside, and out. I know what pisses you off, what makes you happy, what turns you on and off, and what it takes for you to get off. Just as I'm sure, you know all that stuff about _me_."

Oswald was thoughtful for a silent moment, and then asked, "Would you call that 'helplessness' as well?"

"I'd call it 'love', but to each his own, I suppose." Sylvia returned. "It's been a few years, you know. If we don't know each other by now, what the fuck are we doing, then."

"Point taken. Quick question…?"

"Hmm?"

"Am I bleeding?"

Sylvia left his side and Oswald was about to inquire as to why until the bedroom light turned on and he had to squint in order for his eyes to adjust. Sylvia sat on the bed, placed two fingers under his chin and lifted so he was forced to look up at the ceiling while she observed.

"No." She said lightly. "You're not bleeding. Might leave a mark, but only for a few days. Hard enough that I made you see stars, but not hard enough to draw blood. What'd I tell you, baby…I _know_ you."

"Well, thank goodness for that." Oswald said, gently rubbing his neck where she'd bitten him. "I guess you know me pretty well, then."

"Yep. More than you know yourself."

"You sound pretty certain of that."

"Oh, I'd bet on it." Sylvia said, smirking at him.

"Your life, I'm guessing?"

"You guessed right, baby."


	31. The Search For Ivy

Chapter Thirty-One: The Search for Ivy

* * *

Author's Note: Thank you, everyone, for your reviews and messages. They've been really motivating me to write more. I get a little sad around the holidays (family deaths, drama, that sort of thing) so I appreciate the uplifting messages, and the praise for the stories I've written so far. I plan on getting some more done, so keep an eye out :) Muah!

* * *

Paying Jim to find someone might have been enough to grant anyone else peace of mind. But Jim would only work as hard as he decided to.

That wasn't enough for Sylvia. Not at all.

She wouldn't leave it up to Jim to look. Instead, Sylvia had other places to look for Ivy Pepper, however small the inclination or possibility that the girl would be there.

On a list of priorities, this was the first. And her first stop just happened to be a certain Manor where a certain child was staying home from school because he was allegedly 'feeling below the weather'. As it was…

Sylvia presented to the manor with a grocery bag of a variety of items to include cough medicine, a get-well card, and a bowl of chicken noodle soup. To fend off the welcome of the new Fall weather, she gathered her coat closer to her, smiling evenly when the door opened to reveal Alfred Pennyworth, who returned her expression with a surprised one instead.

"Mrs. Cobblepot!" He greeted. He opened the door a little wider, adding, "Well, this is a most pleasant surprise."

"Yes, I thought I'd pop in." Sylvia returned, and she offered him the bag candidly. "Word of mouth says Mr. Wayne has a cold. I thought I'd bring a few things to pepper his spirits…so to speak."

"Aw, there was no need to go through all of that trouble."

"Considering, I'm sure, Bruce isn't sick and he's just not going to school?"

Alfred chuckled, "Nothing gets past you, does it?"

"You'd be surprised what can, honestly. May I come in?"

"Oh good heavens, yes, please, you must be freezing," Alfred said, stepping aside and hurrying her into the manor.

She passed him, entering, and he closed the door as she did. She followed him into the kitchen, frankly surveying her surroundings until Alfred turned, and placed the bag of groceries on the counter nearest to the refrigerator.

"How have you been?" asked Alfred. "It's been a while since we've last seen you…I don't even remember when..."

"Strange had us all locked in some godforsaken room while a time bomb was counting down," She reminded. "Same day, you and I were stuck in a similar godforsaken elevator."

"Ah yes. Well, that _was_ a long time ago, wasn't it?"

"More than a few months, actually."

"It seems longer."

"It seems that way, doesn't it," Sylvia agreed, grinning widely. "How's Bruce?"

"Chirpy and stubborn, as ever."

"I hoped his experience with Strange hadn't dulled his spirits."

"I think he's become more brazen actually."

"That wouldn't surprise me."

"I doubt anything would, considering the ruthlessness of your job," Alfred minded, unable to sanctify a small passive-aggressive streak before it slipped out.

A small moment of silence passed between them, a moment where Sylvia happened to notice that on the counter were a pair of boxing gloves.

"Were you and Bruce sparring?" Sylvia asked.

Alfred glanced at the item in question and said embarrassedly, "Yes, I'm afraid we were."

"I interrupted, then."

"Yes, I'm afraid so. To be quite honest, I wasn't expecting anyone to call on Master Bruce until a few days later, but…"

"Well," Sylvia said lightly, "If we're being _honest_ , I didn't come here to check on Bruce's wellness…at least, not whole-heartedly."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I'm actually trying to find someone. I was hoping he may know where she is."

"Are you looking for Selina Kyle, by chance?"

"No. I know where _she_ is." Sylvia chuckled. "It's one of her friends. Ivy Pepper."

"Oh…oh, I see." Alfred muttered. He cleared his throat, patting the counter shortly with his right hand, and said spiritedly, "Let me see if I can't find Master Bruce. You'll get your answer, sooner than later. How about that?"

"I'd appreciate it, thank you."

"Give me one moment."

"Sure thing." Sylvia relinquished, and she followed Alfred into the living room where he left her there to wait, insisting that she have a seat because 'god-only-knows where that boy has ventured off to'.

Instead of sitting, Sylvia observed the different artifacts, hung pictures, and antiques that gave the Wayne Manor its own slice of antiquity. The Waynes—all of them, not just Bruce or his parents—had a taste for the flair and drama that always came with being an old family in Gotham.

Large pictures that might as well had been photocopied from a museum. Knick knacks of a golden variety placed on the mantle of a fireplace, the surface of a recently stain-finished coffee table, and those that lined like bookends on a large set of bookshelves.

Sylvia idly touched the frail tapestry that hung towards the back of the living room, then the drapes that casually hid the room from the outside world.

What was it like to be a Wayne? To be a rich kid, inheriting all the knowledge, finances, and responsibilities of a family that one hadn't the time on Earth to yet discover?

"Poor kid," Sylvia mumbled. "Poor thing."

"Who are you?"

Sylvia startled at the sound, but she grew even more wary when she turned to see that the voice of Bruce Wayne came from someone who, granted, did look a lot like him, but wasn't comparable to the boy she'd only interacted with on occasion. Even while she didn't see Bruce casually, Sylvia could tell the difference between the sophisticated, intelligent lamb, and… _this_.

This boy that spoke to her was identical to Bruce, and yet, he wasn't. A tress of long black hair lined his neck, tangled, disheveled. His eyes, although the same color and shape as Wayne's, held no joy or vital structure of hope. His lips were chapped, dry as a desert. And the way he held himself as he slowly but cautiously approached her was not in the same confident way Bruce Wayne would usually greet her.

"Who are you?" The boy asked again, growing more curious with each passing second.

"Sylvia Cobblepot," She answered. "Most people seem more comfortable calling me 'Lark' anymore, but I'll leave it up to you, kid. Who the hell are _you_?"

"I don't know." He answered numbly. "I'm…still trying to figure that out. I don't know who I am…but I know who I look like."

"Well, at least you know that much."

"Oh my goodness," Alfred came into the room, gasping, while Bruce Wayne ( _The_ Bruce Wayne) quickly followed him into the living room, looking more alert and overtly unhinged as they saw the other Bruce standing in plain sight.

Sylvia gestured to the other Bruce, while saying to Alfred, "I guess I've interrupted a little more than just 'boxing sessions', haven't I?"

"Mrs. Cobblepot, you don't understand—" Bruce began.

"Don't I?" She returned, smiling, which made Bruce and Alfred blink.

"This young man" Sylvia said to Bruce, gesturing to the clone, "is a spitting image of you. From his own confusion and bewilderment, he came searching for the only person who may have an answer, the only person who likes him—ergo: _you_ , Mr. Wayne. Like a candid, soft-hearted man, I imagine you took him, fed him, clothed him, and—stop me if I'm wrong—I bet you're going to try and find out where and why and how he came to be, by sheltering him here, in your own, until you can be sure. Provided that no one else find out."

Alfred and Bruce exchanged glances, not at all uncertain, but more perplexed. Meanwhile, the Other Bruce observed Sylvia with a small amount of admiration and curiosity.

"She's right on the money," chuckled Alfred, placing his hands behind his back. "Isn't she, Master B?"

"You won't tell anyone, will you?" Bruce asked hopefully. "If they find out—"

"Who would I tell, Mr. Wayne?" Sylvia returned pointedly, extending a hand to him and then to everyone in the room. "And if I had anyone _to_ tell, who on Earth would _believe_ me?"

"Point taken," Bruce considered, but he added, "Still…?"

"Your secret is safe with me."

"Thank you."

"Dare I ask, what have you found out so far?"

"He was one of Strange's experiments," Bruce confided. "Why him—or, I suppose, 'me'…That's still unclear."

"Mm." Sylvia sighed. "I can't imagine it was so that you could expand and double your charity ball arrivals."

"Yes," Alfred agreed with a smile, "I can't imagine it was for that purpose either. However helpful it might seem now."

Bruce glanced at them unhappily—how dare they joke about something so critical!

"Thank you for understanding, at least," Bruce said warmly.

"You're welcome. Now, as to why I'm here," Sylvia said softly, "I need your help, Mr. Wayne."

"Yes. Alfred told me," Bruce said, nodding in the direction of his butler. "But I'm sorry. I've not seen Ivy in a while."

"Well, that's a pity."

"If you don't mind me asking, why are you trying to find her?"

Sylvia crossed her arms plainly, saying, "It's too early in the game to say, but I'd like to say we were 'friends'. She's a sweet girl—troubled, but who isn't these days, you know?"

Alfred and Bruce nodded in agreement.

"She did something for me before, something that I wouldn't normally have asked a child to do, but she did it and she did it well. Shortly after the breakout of Strange's monsters and Fish's short-lived take-over, Ivy vanished," said Sylvia, concerned. "I know you hang around with Selina; she's a survivor. Ivy isn't like that. So, you can see why I'm worried."

"She sometimes turns up," Bruce offered halfheartedly.

"So, she does." She conceded. "But Strange's monsters are unpredictable, and dangerous. I would pit myself against them any time, even Jim, but never a little girl. I'm a monster, myself, but…even _I_ know where to draw the line."

"Understandable. Well, if we see Ms. Pepper, we'll call on you." Alfred offered helpfully.

"Thank you, to the both of you." Sylvia said gratefully.

She shook hands with the both of them, and she was about to leave until she stopped and decided to turn to the Other Bruce, who peered at her curiously, still intrigued by her presence as a whole.

"You're in good hands," Sylvia assured, touching his shoulder.

"Thank you." He returned.

Sylvia addressed the other two: "Have a good one. Be careful. It's Gotham, after all."

* * *

By this time, it was the afternoon. So far, she'd come up empty-handed.

She stopped by a Pizza _John's_ restaurant, walking out with a to-go box of pepperoni pizza. As she took the keys out of her pant pocket, and looked up to put said key into the car door, she wasn't surprised to see that there was already someone in her passenger seat.

Noticing him, Sylvia sighed, opened the car door and put the keys in the cup holder just beneath the radio. Comfortably sitting in the driver's seat, she handed the pizza over to her unfounded guest, smirking at him pointedly.

"You could have called," Sylvia told him.

"I could have," Victor Zsasz returned stoically. Then he grinned, adding, "But you knew I was coming."

"When I said 'meet me at Pizza John's', I didn't mean 'break into my car and sit there for thirty minutes'."

"I've not even been sitting for five minutes."

"But you knew my meaning…"

"Yes, I understood what you meant."

"So..?"

Victor sighed, "I decided to do this instead. Sue me."

"Just eat the goddamn pizza. And put your seat belt on." Sylvia chastised, but even while she shook her head disapprovingly, she cracked a smile.

Victor did as she instructed, putting on his seatbelt. He opened the box, smiling when he saw that she'd purchased his favorite, and he took a slice for himself, contentedly watching her drive back to her club. Upon arrival, he got out of the car first, opening the driver's door with a gentleman's flair to which Sylvia sent him an overly dramatic roll of her eyes.

They strolled up to her club, entered, and Victor seemed surprised to see that there were only a few contenders there—no one big in name or vast in wealth. A few nobodies who were having a drink, eating some peanuts and cashews, while shooting the breeze with the barmaids and waiters who greeted them with another beer.

"Business is slow today," Victor commented.

Sylvia gestured to the table where she and Victor presumed to sit, the box of pizza between them.

"It'll get busy soon." Sylvia promised. "Fridays are always busy."

"No surprise there." Victor returned, smirking at her. "Friday evenings have always been your most profitable. What song are you singing?"

"Do you even care?"

"Of course I do."

"It's not a commonly known one."

"Tell me."

"It's called 'Torn Between Two Lovers," said Sylvia. " Mary McGregor covered it, and it was beautiful. I thought I'd try to do it some justice, and perform it myself. But we'll see."

"What happened to your 'dancers'?" Victor chuckled. "Salt and Pepper, and whatever the other two call themselves."

"They're still practicing."

"You're going to fire them, aren't you."

"You're not far from the truth," Sylvia muttered as she put her hands on her face and rubbed her eyes. "They bicker so often, I can't tell if they're in the trade for entertainment or debate."

"I thought you said you were going to have some illusionist or magician come to the club," Victor said idly, taking another slice of pizza and savoring the flavor. He added, with a mouthful, "I'd come to see that."

"He's booked for next week."

"Why not this week?"

"I have my hands full this week."

"Full of half-ass performers," Victor jabbed, smirking at her. "They're really bringing the place down."

"If you're trying to vex me, you're succeeding," Sylvia warned, lowering her hands to the table. "The club itself is holding up—never have I ever been more successful."

"And look how _bored_ you are."

Sylvia gave him a look. Victor held up a hand in calm surrender, adding, "Am I wrong?"

"You're not wrong." Sylvia muttered, grimacing when he sent her a knowing smirk of his own.

He finished his lunch, closing the box, and looked at her pointedly.

"You remember the contracts we used to go on together," Victor said nostalgically.

"Hard to forget."

"You seemed to enjoy it."

"I _did_ enjoy it."

"You miss it."

"Mm-hmm."

"So break out of this dull routine," Victor encouraged. "Come with me. We'll do a contract, kill a few people, and then you'll be back to yourself in no time."

Sylvia leaned forward, saying, "You know I can't do that."

"Because of the election coming up."

"Because of the election that's currently in progress," She corrected. "I can't be going around, killing people, only to pop up on a podium and try to sell that my husband is the best candidate for mayor despite his wife massacring a thousand of Gotham's civilians."

"Ooh, a _thousand_ ," Victor joked, grinning. "Man, you really do need a vacation, don't you."

Ignoring him, Sylvia continued: "Even if Oswald wasn't pitting himself against Aubrey James for the mayoral candidacy, I'm still—you know— _pregnant_. I can't put myself in harm's way if it means putting _her_ life in danger too."

"So you're having a girl?" Victor questioned suddenly.

"What?"

"You said 'her'."

"I did."

"So you're having a girl."

"Oh…well, yes. I didn't tell you?" Sylvia asked incredulously.

"No."

"Oh." Sylvia mumbled. "I've been so busy…"

Victor smiled and he touched her arm, saying, "Don't worry about it, Liv. So…any names?"

"Do you really care about that, Victor, or are you just pretending because we're friends?"

"The last one."

"Then don't ask."

"Fine, I won't."

"Fine." Sylvia sighed.

Victor and Sylvia were silent for a moment.

"So you asked me to come see you for a reason other than to catch up," Victor offered, business-like.

Sylvia chuckled, "I guess I did. To be honest, I almost forgot."

"That's why I reminded you."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"You haven't happened to come across a girl named Ivy Pepper, have you?" Sylvia asked.

Victor blinked. Amusedly, he said, "You're concerned about a _kid_?"

"Yes, I am. Is that so outlandish?"

"No, I've seen you do more outrageous things than be concerned about some orphan." Victor resounded notably. "It's kind of funny, actually."

"What is?"

"You. Getting your hairs crossed over a kid. You've gone up against some of the nastiest people Gotham has to offer, beaten up people for lesser reasons, but when a kid goes missing, you're up in arms," Victor said humorously. "It's funny."

"Have you or haven't you seen her recently," Sylvia demanded curtly.

"No. I've not seen her. But between you becoming the next First Lady and on the verge of having a kid of your own…" Victor reasoned, "If I were you, I'd start focusing on those two things…and maybe start planning a mini vacation for yourself. Not worrying about—"

"I know what I have to focus on," Sylvia snapped. "Don't think I don't?"

"Priority check. That's all I'm saying."

"My priorities _are_ in order."

"Fine. _They're_ in order. If you say so." Victor said calmly. "I'm looking after _you_. Always have been. Remember, Liv? I walked you down the aisle at your wedding."

"An odd time to bring _that_ up, don't you think?" Sylvia responded, cocking her head to the side.

"Just trying to lighten the mood with nostalgia. Is it working?"

"Kinda."

"Good. Now, that said, I'm about to hunt down a man who owes a lot of money to Penguin," Victor said, standing up. "I'll happily extend the invitation if you want to come along for the ride…"

"…But I'd have to decline," Sylvia said whole-heartedly. "So have fun for the both of us, okay?"

"Don't have to tell me twice." Victor said, grinning from ear-to-ear.

Sylvia stood and walked him out. Before he left, Victor turned and hugged her around the shoulders. Surprised by the sudden display of affection, Sylvia let out a small laugh, not before hugging him back. He kissed her forehead, and then left the club.

As cheerful as she felt a moment ago, a looming dread replaced it.

No one had seen Ivy. Not a soul.

In fact, the people she had spoken to could barely recollect just who Ivy was until she had jogged their memory. Perhaps she'd have to face the music on this one.

It was likely that Ivy was gone for good.


	32. Csilla

Chapter Thirty-Two: Csilla

* * *

Sylvia strode into the manor, unaffected when she saw that at least fifteen people inhabited the living room, along with blue ribbons and a banner that was planted on the wall that read 'Oswald Cobblepot For Mayor: 'Make Gotham Safe Again'.

Had she not been burdened with her own dissatisfaction of not finding Ivy, the scene itself might have been overwhelming.

Two or three other people were walking around, putting up more ribbons and balloons, talking amorously to one another about how Gotham would be a whole new city under the rule of their favorite candidate.

The normally empty elongated oak table was seated with six people, men and women who were answering their own corded phones, emphasizing the promises Oswald insisted on keeping in order to do what he vowed (making Gotham safe). The room was filled with ringing phones, the same loud chatter that would accompany it.

Upon her arrival, the couple of people that weren't busting ass on the hotline, noticed her and they met her with open arms.

"Mrs. Cobblepot, what do you think of these decorations?"

"—Mrs. Cobblepot, do you think these pins will do—?"

She minded them with a polite smile, but didn't offer them any suggestions or feedback on her end. She walked past them, and shut herself in the kitchen, leaned over the counter and rubbed her temples.

Was it bad that all she wanted to do right now was go to bed?

"How was your afternoon?"

Sylvia looked to her left from where the voice had spoken, and she peered at its owner with little enthusiasm.

It was Butch Gilzean.

"Long," she answered vaguely.

"Guessing the search for that girl didn't go well."

Sylvia straightened, placing a hand on the counter as she questioned, "How the hell do you know about that?"

"Penguin said you were looking for her." Butch answered, shrugging a shoulder. "Hopeless, in my opinion, but I like your determination."

"Get the fuck out of my kitchen, Butch. I don't feel like talking."

"Oh, man. That search didn't go well at _all_."

"Need I tell you twice?"

"No." Butch reassured. "You don't. I'm pretty sure if you really wanted to, you could just pick me up and throw me out of here. If you really, really wanted to, that is."

Sylvia glared at him, looking at him for a while before she rolled her eyes, and started towards the refrigerator. Half-haphazardly, she opened the door; the contents in its side shifted unceremoniously; rattling again when she closed the door after taking out a bottle of orange juice.

"Fine. If you don't want to get out of the kitchen, _I_ will." Sylvia told him frankly, leaving him behind as she strode out to the patio where there was no one else around to which she was very grateful.

Still, to her discontent, Butch followed.

She took a seat in the nearest chair, minding the chilly air before reclining back. He stood next to her, almost like a body guard, or maybe someone who was waiting to ask a dreaded question with dangerous consequences…like he was waiting for her to have a moment before he relayed some bad news.

When she opened her eyes, he was still there.

"What do you want?" asked Sylvia unhappily.

"Nothing, really. Just wanted to see how you were doing."

"You can't tell from my behavior?"

"Well, I can see you're mad." Butch noted, looking her up and down. "And you might want to be alone, but I'm also thinking that you might need to talk something out."

"You're not exactly the ideal 'shoulder to cry on', Butchy."

"I can be, if you wanted."

"Well, sorry to tell you this, but I'm not in the mood to talk. Or cry. So, you have my permission to leave." Sylvia muttered, closing her eyes and shifting in her seat.

"You remind me of Fish a lot." Butch conveyed carefully. "I bet you don't get that often."

"I get it a lot more than you think," Sylvia sighed. "Is that why you're still here? Wanna talk about her?"

"If you want."

"What I want is to be _alone_."

"I'm actually curious," Butch continued (Sylvia sighed sharply), "Why you don't have Demetri around you."

Despite her frustration, he was right. Demetri wasn't around her, and _that_ was odd, wasn't it.

"I'd normally be pissed by now," Sylvia said, sitting up, "but you have a point. Where _is_ he?"

"I don't know." Butch returned. "Probably making your bed, or refurbishing the bathroom."

Hearing his tone, she sent him a look.

"Hey," he said defensively, "everyone knows he's been trying to kiss your ass since you let him live. I'm just making suggestions here."

Sylvia rolled her eyes, stood to her feet, and started through the mansion. While Butch had mentioned Demetri in a passive-aggressive way (was he low-key jealous?), he had a point. Demetri would normally be on her heels the moment she came home, trying to service her in any way that was humanly possible, and yet, his absence had only gone unnoticed, until now.

She willfully moved through the living room where the countless fans fanatically answered phone calls, but didn't see Demetri in sight. Or Oswald for that matter.

And she thought the worst for a brief second.

 _Both_ of them were gone. Not in the manor…then what…

Suddenly, her brief moment of panic subsided when she saw Oswald and Demetri coming down the stairs.

Demetri had a pen and notepad in his hands, writing down everything Oswald was telling him. As they reached the bottom step, Demetri repeated back the information, then momentarily paused when he and Oswald saw Sylvia, looking up at them.

"Do you want to meet with the school attendant as well?" Demetri asked, smiling politely at Sylvia before turning to Oswald dutifully.

"It's inevitable at this point, Mr. Byrd," Oswald said confidently. "Might as well get that underway as well."

"Yes, of course, sir. And when were you planning on meeting with Mr. James?"

"Tomorrow. Afternoon, preferably."

"And if Mr. James insists on the evening…? You know how he can be, Mr. Penguin. A man like him…"

"My evenings are preoccupied," Oswald told him coolly, glancing at Sylvia, who smiled in response. "I'll be unavailable."

"And if he insists…"

"I have dinner with Sylvia every evening," He emphasized. "My evenings are non-negotiable, Mr. Byrd."

"Of course, sir. Also, a press conference is allegedly going to be held by Mrs. James…" Demetri informed, glancing between the two Cobblepots. "She has information that might cripple your campaign" (he glanced at Oswald) "about Miss Sylvia's past."

"If Mrs. James has anything negative to say about me," Sylvia interjected coolly, "She's more than happy to say it to anyone she likes…provided that they actually _listen_ to her." She crossed her arms, saying to Oswald, "I might just go to this interview myself."

"What happened to 'no longer expending any more energy', that sort of thing?" Oswald recalled.

"If she wants to make a fool of herself on television, in front of the media, that's her choice."

Demetri said uncertainly, "So should I call Gotham News and let them know that you'll be in attendance, or…?"

"When is it?"

"Tomorrow afternoon."

"No, then."

"No?" Oswald and Demetri repeated simultaneously.

"That's right," Sylvia returned. "I'll be going with you to this dinner with Aubrey James."

"He specified that he wants to meet with Mr. Penguin alone," Demetri reminded.

"Then he can meet him alone…with me."

Oswald sighed, "I'm more than capable of handling myself, Pigeon."

"I'm more than aware of that, but I still don't trust him." Sylvia said coolly. "Besides, anything he wants to say to you, he can say in front of me. If anything, he wants to try and intimidate you out of this election or blackmail, and if he wants to play games, I'm more than happy to play. Besides…I'm bored."

Oswald rolled his eyes, saying, "You have plenty to do here," and he gesticulated to the people surrounding the phone lines.

"Politics." Sylvia corrected. "I told you before: I don't do politics. I have no interest. But meeting with someone like Aubrey who wants to meet my husband alone—now see, _that_ interests me."

"No harm will come to me," Oswald promised in an attempt to persuade her.

"You bet it won't." She reassured.

Demetri glanced between them uncertainly; seeing as there was no way to deflect Sylvia's overprotective nature to something else, Oswald told him that Sylvia would be in attendance, and therefore, her presence at the interview with Mrs. James would be one of absence, instead.

Demetri scribbled a few notes down, then asked, "Is there anything else you'd like me to do, Mr. Penguin?"

"No thanks. You've been more than helpful."

Demetri gave a short bow of his head and then left shortly to accomplish his other tasks. When he did, Sylvia looked after him, then grinned knowingly at Oswald, who gazed at her coolly.

"So you finally caved." Sylvia said sheepishly, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Oswald took her hands and placed them on his chest, saying, "He was insistent."

"And you caved." She repeated, smirking. "I told you he just wants to be helpful."

"And so far, he has been."

"I'm happy you've started coming around."

Oswald kissed the back of her hand, and she beamed at him.

"How was your search?" He asked gently.

Sylvia's face fell.

"It was a fruitless endeavor," Oswald told her.

"But not a hopeless one," She reminded. She hugged Oswald around the middle, putting her head on his shoulder. "Ivy didn't really have anyone, you know. I was probably it. But no one has seen her. And it's been a long time."

"More than a few weeks."

"Long enough, then."

"So what now?" Oswald asked, kissing the top of her head.

"I don't know." Sylvia murmured, her voice muffled with her face in his suit. "I don't know what else to do."

"Perhaps there's nothing more you _can_ do," He offered.

"Perhaps not."

A moment passed during which Oswald just held her, knowing that Sylvia was feeling helpless and not in such a way that she would like. With all the power, and resources she and Oswald had, there was still little chance in her finding the orphan, and that seemed to take out any hope she might have had left.

"Have you been thinking of names?" Sylvia asked, lifting her head so she could look up at him and meet his eyes.

Oswald smiled guiltily.

"Not really," he admitted. "The campaign has really stole my attention."

"I've thought of one." She uttered quietly. "But perhaps it's too early to tell."

Hearing that she had a name in mind, Oswald's eyes lit up with interest and curiosity. He wrapped his arms around her waist, moving her closer to him if that was possible.

"Tell me." He said softly.

"Well…you know, I've been thinking." She said gently. "Your mom was Hungarian. I felt it was only fitting to have our daughter's name be Hungarian as well."

Oswald smiled saying, "What is it?"

"Csilla."

"'Csilla'?"

"Mm-hmm. C-S-I-L-L-A. The 'C' is silent." Sylvia said shortly, grinning up at him. "Her middle name would be 'Trudy'. After your mom."

Oswald gazed at her, transfixed, nearly.

"I'm not a mind reader, Oz. You have to tell me. Do you like it?" Sylvia asked.

"I love it." Oswald whispered, grinning widely.

Sylvia gasped quietly when he suddenly kissed her, but she melted into it. Tender, loving kisses followed. When the kiss broke naturally, their lips still lingered, as though the idea of leaving the other's embrace would be too painful to bear.

"How long do these campaigns typically go on for?" Sylvia mumbled.

"A few months, if not longer." Oswald answered.

"Do these people leave at the end of the day?"

"They will, yes."

"Good. I don't care to have a few bodyguards prowling about, but having this many people in the manor is kinda creeping me out." Sylvia admitted. She kissed his cheek, and added, "Plus, I don't mind it so much but I'd like to have sex later on tonight and I don't think you'd be comfortable having all these people hear us upstairs."

Oswald grinned at her.

She was so shameless, but how he loved her for it.

* * *

Author's Note/Disclaimer: For everyone's awareness or curiosity, Csilla is pronounced as it would be in the name "Priscilla"…but it is not to be mistaken for a nickname in this story. I know the spelling can be pronounced other ways, but this is it :) Let me know if you do too. :)


	33. Inglorious Basterds

Chapter Thirty-Three: Inglorious Basterds

* * *

To say that Oswald was interested in meeting Aubrey James was an understatement. Since his phone call was received by one of his many volunteers answering his landline, the suggestion was as titillating as it could be.

The meeting place was public. It was a casual diner, renowned for its top-selling and specialty dish, meatballs and spaghetti. The sauce was what made it so delectable and memorable.

While it was Butch who drove him and Sylvia to the diner, it was only the two of them who entered. While James had anticipated his visit, the man looked less than happy to see Sylvia accompanying him. Oswald could have objected to Sylvia's demand to be present but the argument would've left him empty-handed and tired.

He hadn't bothered talking her out of it on the way here. By all means, the woman had more than made up her mind. Still, she'd done him the favor of dressing up, wearing a cocktail dress herself with an off-the-shoulder feel, and a color that was redder than her own hair.

As they approached Aubrey James' table, the man frowned.

"You were supposed to come alone," James said unhappily, glancing with an expression as unenthusiastic to Sylvia, who grinned innocently.

"Oh, believe me," Oswald assured. "I tried to come alone. But, as I'm sure you've learned in your prior dealings with her, Sylvia is determined in everything she does."

"To include attending dinners without an invitation," James added. "Your reputation proceeds you."

"It's only because of _your_ reputation, Aubrey," Sylvia retorted, "that I felt the need to come at all."

"Well, as flattering as that is—"

"—Oh trust me, it wasn't a compliment."

"Have a seat, either way." James grunted, gesturing to the chairs.

Oswald pulled out a chair that was beside Aubrey James, smiling when Sylvia took the seat happily. Oswald sat across from her, left hand on the table while his right sat atop his cane, pointedly feeling at ease while Sylvia glared at Aubrey.

"A public place," Oswald told James, "Smart."

"Knowing your flair for the dramatic, I thought it necessary," James responded casually as he continued finishing what was left of his meal.

Oswald smiled: "How flattering. But why exert myself needlessly? The public sees me as a man of action. You…you are yesterday's sad joke."

Sylvia smiled inwardly.

"While Galavan humiliated this city, where were _you_? In a warehouse with a box on your head." Oswald pointed out.

James sighed coolly, and said with the same frigid tone, "You're an unstable lunatic, Penguin, and people are going to see right through you. I've got the judges—"

"—Corrupted," Sylvia uttered.

"—The unions—" James continued, glaring at her in annoyance.

"—Not as dirty—"

"—The GCPD—"

"— _Very dirty_ —" Sylvia chirped with a dark smile.

"—And a whole team of legal experts behind me. What do you got?" James challenged.

Oswald smirked, leaned forward and said with little worry, "I have _me_."

"And that's it," James returned. "Aside from this one" (he inclined his head to Sylvia) "and let's be honest, she's just as insane as you are, if not more, you have no one else. And the world will see it. Let's face it: You're psychotic!"

Oswald suddenly stood, slamming his hand on the table. And just as he did, several employees, including waiters, waitresses, and even the bus boys, clamored out of their stalls, away from their tables, and kitchen utensils to suddenly pull a gun on Sylvia and Oswald, who, when they did, looked at James with a calculating stare.

"Not this time, Penguin!" James told him. "My head will not be put in a box again."

Oswald glanced at Sylvia, who smiled at him readily. Then to James: "Ooh, _you_. So smart. Always two steps ahead. Never three…"

But nothing happened. James looked around, at his staff, who appeared just as confused, then to Oswald, who was smirking at Sylvia.

"Have you ever seen 'Inglorious Basterds'," Sylvia said calmly to James, who looked at her suddenly with a fear. "There's a scene that I love most in that movie. I'm sure you'll be able to tell me what that scene is…if you look down."

James peered downward, slowly.

His eyes grew wide.

"That's right." Sylvia purred. "You have all these guns aimed at my husband and me…but you've not even noticed _mine_. I've had it out now for the past five minutes, and it's aimed straight between your legs. So…tell your men to put down their fucking weapons, or I will shoot you _."_

"For what reason…" James mumbled, looking down to see that what she said was true.

"Aside from threatening him and me? I'd shoot you on principle for calling my husband 'crazy'." Sylvia said slyly, smirking at Oswald, who proudly took a pin out from inside of his jacket and placed it on James' suit.

"Relax," Oswald reassured. "I do not want you dead. Besides, what kind of fun would an election be if I was the only candidate, huh? You're right though. I _do_ need a little more help. And I have _just_ the right person in mind."

"I'm still down to shoot him if you want," Sylvia offered.

"No. It's over, dear. Let him go," He said lightly.

"Really?"

"Sylvia…" He cautioned.

"Fine, fine," Sylvia sighed. Once the employees had lowered their weapons, Sylvia slowly put the trigger back, and then stood.

James glared at her, saying, "You're definitely crazier than him. You know that, don't you."

"Oh without a doubt," Sylvia said happily.

"My wife is at a press conference right now," James said just as Oswald and Sylvia were walking out, "And she's telling _everyone_ what people you _really_ are!"

Oswald sent Sylvia a cool, calculating glance, which she returned. After a moment, James had wished he hadn't spoken his threat so loudly. For a second, it appeared that Oswald was going to sic Sylvia on him. Then, surprisingly, she rolled her eyes and walked out of the door with Oswald moving right behind her.

* * *

Once in the car, Butch started the engine and the limo casually was on its way.

Sylvia sat in the back seat with Oswald, who looked at her plainly.

"Do you have my bullets?" Sylvia asked airily to no one in particular.

As though on call, Butch reached into the glove compartment and handed her the magazine; Sylvia took it thankfully, popped the bullets in the chamber of the Glock she had used to threaten Aubrey James, and placed it in her purse.

Watching her do this, Oswald asked, "Why did you leave the magazine in the car?"

"I'd be tempted to shoot the man, if I didn't."

"So if I'd given you the 'go head, you'd have been unable to kill him."

"I'd be able to kill him—I don't need a gun to do it. But I knew you wouldn't let me kill him anyway. I was just saying it for showmanship."

Oswald chuckled, "It wasn't loaded at all."

"Not even one in the chamber," Sylvia sighed proudly. "It's all mind power. James fell for it."

"Yes, he did."

"Before you go by Arkham, could you drop me off at my club?" Sylvia asked. "I've a guest that's going to entertain tonight and I need to make sure he has everything he needs."

"Of course." Oswald said as he kissed her cheek.

* * *

Author's Note: I admit, I've had this scene planned in my head for _at least_ a year since I started writing this story. I'm so happy I could write it!: D


	34. Hypnotized

Chapter Thirty-Four: Hypnotized

* * *

In _Lean on Vee's_ , Jervis Tetch sat at the bar on a pew, grateful for the drink he'd been given ('compliments of the house', a young woman had told him), as he waited for his hour. While he might not have come so early on his own dime, Sylvia had insisted. And, as many were learning, it was hard to say 'no' to such a strong-willed woman as she.

Sylvia sat at the bar with him, drinking a club soda.

"No balloons, no magical dust. No mirrors of any kind. Not even a dove or two…" Sylvia mused, looking at him. "What kind of magician are you, really?"

"A magician, I am not," Tetch said wisely. "As my business card suggests, I'm a hypnotist. My craft is the power of the mind, and what a simple suggestion may do if one's mind is free and uninhibited… _that_ is the act."

"'Uninhibited'," Sylvia repeated, chuckling. "Being a hypnotist, are you able to make someone do whatever you want?"

"Only what they themselves want to do. Deep down."

"And how do you know what that is if you've never met them?"

"It's a super power," Tetch responded, flirtatious. "It's really amazing what some people want, deeply."

"You've met me a couple of times now."

"That, I have."

"What does your 'super power' say about me then?" Sylvia asked coyly.

"My dear, I doubt you'd want to know."

"Oh, you 'doubt' I'd want to know, huh? Well, I most certainly want to know now."

Tetch looked at her curiously, saying, "You're not at all like your brother, Jim Gordon, are you, Mrs. Cobblepot."

"Mm. I think you've lost your super power." Sylvia said, smirking at him. "On a contrary to what you think you know or have seen, my brother and I are _very_ much alike. Our prospects, on the other hand: Night and day."

"So alike," Tetch offered, "that you two may want the same thing, perhaps?"

"Meaning?"

Tetch said mysteriously, "Nothing, of course. I meant nothing by it. Just playing the field, I suppose."

Sylvia chuckled, "You're barking up the wrong tree, then. I'm happily married."

"With a child on the way, it appears." Tetch said ingeniously, glancing down at her then adding, "Boy or girl?"

"Girl."

"Only a few months away from the big day, aren't we?"

"Something like that."

"Now don't feel as though you must be so guarded around me," Tetch assured wistfully. "I'm not dangerous at all."

"This is Gotham," Sylvia told him, unconvinced. "Everyone is dangerous. Even the ones who say they aren't—those are the people who really are…at least, more than the rest of us."

"No offense, my dear, but _you_ are dangerous as well."

"No offense taken; it's the truth."

"So should I be more precarious about being alone in a club full of your more bruiser-like associates," said Tetch, glancing over at Gabe, Dagger, and Chilly, who were bouncers at the club. "Or perhaps" He smiled, "I should be more wary of a woman who possesses such a natural beauty as yours."

"You've got a silver tongue, Tetch." Sylvia said coolly. "I won't deny that. But," (she stood.) "As I said, you're barking up the wrong tree. I want no one else but my husband."

"Even on a subconscious level?"

" _Especially_ on a subconscious level," Sylvia said, winking at him.

"And if I wanted to test that level of confidence?"

"I'd invite you to try, but you would only fail. And I doubt that would pave the way to more shows."

Tetch nodded respectfully, holding his drink to hers. "Then a toast: To the shows that pay my way through this magnanimous city and the hostess who has taught me humility through my own arduous endeavors."

They clinked their glasses.

* * *

Within the hours that proceeded to follow, _Lean on Vee's_ steadily became a packed building. All seats were filled, and some of the guests had taken to even standing at the bar or around the club, along the staircases, and around the second floor, leaning over the rails to watch the Great Jervis Tetch perform.

Sylvia was in the crowd, minding her own business until a hand touched her shoulder so lightly, she wondered if she'd been touched at all. She turned to see Barbara Kean standing behind her, wearing a beautiful, long royal blue dress; a strand of pearls around her neck, and mesmerizing streams of turquoise sequence lined her dress that reminded Sylvia of ocean waves and aurora lights.

Barbara's hair was pulled up into a ponytail, the end locks braided into a stunning French plait. Shimmers of pink and blues covered her eyelids. To say she was stunning was an understatement.

"Well, well," Sylvia greeted, "Didn't think I'd see _you_ for another few weeks."

"I heard you booked Tetch for a night," said Barbara, shrugging. "Thought I'd come to see what kind of show he'd wow _your_ guests with."

"And where's your lesser half?"

"Tabitha decided to stay behind," she said, another small shrug following.

"Guess she's learned she's not welcome anywhere around me," Sylvia uttered crassly, smirking when Barbara smiled at her.

"Eventually, you'll learn to like her."

"When Hell freezes over, maybe."

"Or you'll just get over it."

"She killed my mother-in-law, Babs. There's no 'getting over' that."

"Fine then." Barbara sighed. "At least you still like me."

"More than I care to admit."

"'More than you'd care to admit', _I bet_." Barbara said sweetly, wrinkling her nose playfully at her. "I haven't forgotten that kiss you gave me in front of everyone: Tabitha, Butch, even Oswald. I was hoping it'd happen again."

"Tabitha wouldn't like that, I imagine." Sylvia suspected coolly.

"What doesn't she like anymore?"

"Having problems between you two?"

"Small debates, no problems."

"Small tiffs, no arguments," Sylvia corrected. "Same thing to me."

"There's no getting the last word with you, is there?"

"You've known me for a time, B. You should know that by now."

"Has anyone told you you're like Jim?" Barbara questioned, slightly annoyed.

"Some people have said we're _nothing_ alike." Sylvia returned, thinking of Tetch.

"Well, I guess they don't know you and Jim like I do, huh."

"I guess not." Sylvia agreed. "How's your business? Surviving?"

"Thriving. Yours?"

"Same as usual."

Barbara glanced at her, over all, saying, "You're starting to show more."

"Yep."

"You're having a girl, right?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Let me know if you need any baby clothes. Jim and I were always thinking we'd have one…went ahead of ourselves and bought a few things. Shit happens, and here we are. So, I have them still in my apartment, if you'd like them," Barbara said casually. She put an arm around Sylvia, bringing her closer. "We wouldn't want that sweet baby of yours wanting anything, right?"

"Sure." Sylvia said, unconvinced. "Because you certainly care that much about Oswald and me."

"You're right. Maybe it's only you. After all, we have _history."_ Barbara whispered. She gently caressed Sylvia's face in the palm of her hand, her thumb ghosting over her chin before she kissed Sylvia's cheek, and then said promptly, "Phew! I think I'm going to get a drink."

"Help yourself." Sylvia said, gesturing her forward. "The bar's open."

"Thanks, babe." Barbara responded sweetly, and she left her side.

Sylvia watched her, feeling as though she might have missed something in the conversation that had just happened, and yet not feeling completely unsafe prior to it. Shaking it off, she proceeded to walk to the center stage, standing under the spot light in a knee-length, dark green sundress.

She picked the mic from its stand and addressed the crowd: "Good evening! How is everyone today?"

Hollers and whooping calls came from all around her.

She said inventively, "Today, we have an attraction: a hypnotist. He's fairly new to Gotham but we will all soon know his name by the end of today, won't we? Everyone, I introduce you to the Great Jervis Tetch: Hypnotist Extraordinaire."

As he was introduced, Tetch proceeded to walk from behind the curtains and took the center stage, smiling at Sylvia warmly.

"Thank you, Lark," he said lightly. "Thank you, everyone. Um, actually, if our beautiful hostess doesn't mind participating in my first act…I'd be more than grateful and humbled."

Sylvia had started to leave the stage, owing to give the floor to him, but hearing him, she turned and walked back. Whispering, she said, "If you're thinking of delving into my psyche, you have _no_ idea what you're going to find, Mr. Tetch."

"By all means," He uttered, "The more you try to warn me, the further you pique my curiosity."

Sylvia sighed, rolling her eyes, and she waved at the crowd as she remained on stage with him.

"First," said Tetch loudly as he continued to do his act, "I will place our Lark under my spell, and hypnotize her. However, I _would_ need the lady's consent."

Sylvia gave him a look saying, "Isn't it better to try and take it than ask for permission?"

The crowd tittered. Meanwhile, Gabe, Dagger, and Chilly glanced at one another suspiciously; Barbara, who stood at the bar, peered at everyone else with little amusement.

"Alas, my dear, regardless of what is better, I _do_ require your permission to put you under."

"As long as I don't need an affidavit, fine. You have my permission," Sylvia said coolly. She leaned into him, whispering quickly, "Do _not_ do anything that is even the slightest bit dangerous or anything that would involve my child; otherwise, I _will_ come after you. Understand?"

"Understood." Tetch promised. "I will _not_ harm your child."

"Fine. Do what-have-you then." Sylvia said, closing her eyes.

"Actually, I'll need you to keep those beautiful eyes of yours open."

Sylvia opened her eyes, saying, "Alright. They're open. Now what?"

"Now look into _my_ eyes. Not above them. Not around them. But deep into their center…"

As he said so, Sylvia did. Tetch held up a pocket watch, its face open to her; the ticking seemingly louder than a normal watch. And fast too…then it became slower, and slower...as though it synchronized with her own passively alive heart beat.

Then her eyes closed.

Barbara took a sip of her tequila, watching Sylvia's eyes close. Sylvia stood on the stage, arms at her side, relatively relaxed. Needlessly unbothered by the world around her or its fragmented reality.

"So, our dear Lark is now completely hypnotized," Tetch said proudly. "What would we have her do?"

"We could have her tell the truth."

The voice came from the back, the _very_ back. Tetch squinted his eyes to see who the person was that had spoken so boldly, and from the crowd was Mrs. James, wearing her usual tight bun, and a beige colored jump suit that seemed to fit too snugly along her hips and legs.

"The truth?" Tetch said curiously, standing in front of Sylvia. "So, my dear woman, you'd have us delve into her mind, her heart, her true psyche to discover… _what_ exactly?"

"What her true crimes are against the city," Mrs. James stated unhappily. With little dictation, the woman approached the stage, shooing some of the more unruly goons out of her way without much consideration for her own safety. "This woman is running against my husband for mayor—her husband, sir, being Penguin: Oswald Cobblepot."

"Yeah!" growled one of the guests. "We know who the Penguin is, y'old coot!"

" _She_ ," Mrs. James said harshly, pointing at Sylvia, "has _many_ a time come to the public and accused my family of being corrupt, of being dirty. Well, it is time to show that she has done _countless_ crimes, more than the rest of my family is even fully capable of. I have my reporter, _here"_ (she drew the crowd's attention to a measly man who was at least half her height) "to document these proceedings!"

Barbara rolled her eyes and drew attention to herself as she said coldly, "So, basically" (Mrs. James glared at her) "You're going to attack my friend when she's most vulnerable, in a way that she won't be able to defend herself, because you feel subjugated. Is that it?"

"No! She says she has 'nothing to hide'," Mrs. James stated coldly. "It's time to see if she's been honest. _Well_!"

Tetch looked at everyone else, waiting for a disagreement. Waiting for any one to object.

"Miss Kean," said Tetch, waiting for her to disapprove. "You seem to have this Lark's best interests at heart. Do you wish to proceed?"

"If Lark says she has nothing to hide," said Barbara passively, "Then I guess she has nothing to hide. Do what you want."

Tetch smiled widely, and happily gestured for Mrs. James to come on stage. Righteously, she did, holding her head high, chin almost exposed to the roof top as she stood beside him.

"I am at your mercy, Mrs. James," said Tetch, bowing dramatically to her. "And, by definition, so is our hostess. Please proceed. And, my dear Lark" (he touched Sylvia's shoulder) "by all means, _do_ tell."

Mrs. James watched as Tetch stepped out of the way, gesturing to them.

"Sylvia," Tetch said softly, "When I count down to one, you will answer Mrs. James' questions in whatever manner you see fit, just as long as you speak the truth and only the irrefutable truth. To be clear, you will not in any way harm yourself or anyone else. In three...two…one…"

Sylvia opened her eyes, and turned to Mrs. James. Seemingly lucid, but otherwise alert.

Mrs. James glanced at Tetch uncertainly. And Barbara couldn't help but smirk. Even while Sylvia was under Tetch's spell, lucid, restrained by her own subconscious, and otherwise vulnerable and hardly dangerous, Mrs. James was _still_ afraid of her.

"Go on, Mrs. James," Tetch encouraged. "She's harmless, I assure you."

"Cobblepot," Mrs. James sniffed. "What crimes have you committed."

Sylvia said lightly, "Since when?"

"Since…well, since ever?" Mrs. James said curiously. "I mean, when did you first start committing crimes."

"In general, or specifics?"

"In general, I suppose."

Sylvia said flatly, "I robbed my first gas station when I was fifteen."

"And?"

"And _what?_ "

"You've done other stuff, then."

"Yes, I have."

"So tell us about that, why don't you."

"You asked me to tell you when I committed my first crimes, 'generally' speaking. What else do you want to know?" Sylvia said calmly, although the crowd was tittering, knowing their hostess would have easily snapped at the former mayor's wife long before this moment had she been in her alert and awake state.

Mrs. James, clearly stinted by Sylvia's lack of usual open-book mouth syndrome, said halfheartedly, "Tell us everything you've ever done since your first crime."

"That will take a few hours," Sylvia admitted.

"Tell us anyway."

"Actually," Barbara interrupted, "not all of us have a few hours to kill. How about just telling us the darkest deeds you've ever done, Liv."

The crowd agreed.

Sylvia looked at Tetch pointedly. He said calmly, "Do as they wish, my dear."

Mrs. James hissed at her reporter, "You better get your pen ready, Damien!"

The reporter put his pen to the notepad, steadfast.

Sylvia said calmly, "When I was younger, a boy consistently harassed me. To get even, I falsely accused an 18-year-old boy of sexually molesting me when I was 17 years old. He was tried and convicted as an adult and served 10 years."

Barbara chuckled.

"After my brother left our family to join the Army, I was angry for him leaving me. I lashed out, and I beat a dog to death." Sylvia continued, her facial expressions slightly changed from pensive to minutely distressed. She added in spite of the murmurs, "After, I buried him in my backyard. I never told anyone about it."

"These are your darkest deeds?" Mrs. James questioned.

Sylvia said coolly, "I'm working my way up to it, you fucking twat. Shut the fuck up so I can answer your damn question, won't you?"

Mrs. James glared at her then at Tetch, saying, "I thought you said she was going to be civil!"

"I said she could answer your questions in her own way," Tetch returned lightly from the sidelines, "And that she would harm neither anyone else nor herself. The fact that she expresses herself in cruel euphemisms and curses are hers alone."

Sylvia continued, "When my brother came back from the Army, his high school sweetheart, Danielle, was supposed to be waiting for him." (Barbara looked at her curiously, having never heard _this_ about Jim.) "Unknown to my brother, Danielle was cheating on him. So when he was on the bus home, I snuck into Danielle's apartment, and I beat her within an inch of her life. Her family was scared of me, so they ended up moving cities. To save my brother from heart ache, and to cover up the fact that I had nearly killed his girlfriend, I plagiarized a note, made it seem like Danielle had written that she had moved and he had to move on. Jim believed me."

Mrs. James said, "This is all nice and everything, but let's touch on some murders, why don't we."

Sylvia smiled, saying, "Murders in general, or ones that the public would consider 'overkill'. See what I did there? Puns."

"Murders that you would never tell the public."

Sylvia tilted her head to the side, saying, "I've killed people because they went against my family: be it my parents, my brother, or my husband. I've killed people because they called my husband names no wife would want to hear about their loved one. I've killed people because my husband asked me to, because they would hinder his plans or mine for the future of Gotham, or because I felt like it. If you want to know something in particular, Mrs. James, I suggest you try asking specific questions."

Mrs. James stepped towards her, angrily, "You're such a dishonest woman, _aren't_ you. Such a horrible person…"

"I'm petulant, insubordinate, rude, crass, and any other word you can think of," Sylvia admitted. "But if _I_ am dishonest, then you are _**so**_ much worse."

Mrs. James looked as though she might blow a fuse. She stammered, "What was your mother like?"

"My mother did not want Jim or me. She despised my father, hated her children, despite our wish to be loved and beloved by her. She paid back our love with selfishness which led her to her becoming a drug addict, and abandoning us. Later, Jim and I soon discovered that she completed suicide, finding death a better suit than her own family." Sylvia replied flatly.

"Your mother sounds psychotic. Like you."

"My mother felt unloved and useless," Sylvia returned calmly. "She felt hopeless in a world without hope, and empty in a world without love. She behaved as the world had trained her to behave, and she lived in a way that she thought was best. I loved her without condition and without mistrust; and she abandoned me. If a mother's psychosis is any indication of what her daughter will become, I fear I have little hope in proving to you that I'm _not_ psychotic. And if I'm crazy, I can guarantee my daughter will be too."

Barbara smirked as the crowd muttered, nodding. Mrs. James grinned widely, hearing Sylvia admit that she was insane, and her daughter would be too.

"Even if my mom, myself, and my daughter are crazy," Sylvia said softly. She stepped towards Mrs. James pointedly. "At least we're not fucking liars."

Mrs. James sniffed, shuffling in her position unceremoniously. Loudly, she announced, "What _other_ atrocities have you committed, Mrs. Cobblepot. Tell us!"

"After some of Maroni's men tried to rape me," Sylvia said pointedly, "I got down on my knees, sucked one of them off until they were fully erect, and then I bit his dick off, and shot his testicles off with a gun. Did that last year, if you really wanted to know."

Mrs. James coughed, and Barbara nearly spit out her drink. Tetch, on the other hand, appeared amused as ever.

Sylvia continued, amidst the chatty crowd, "Prior to that, a girl named Tiffany Rubberdale used to work for me until she and several of my other employees were taken down by the GCPD. Tiffany's fiance, Burke Drifas, was an abusive asshole. I poured scorching hot tomato soup over his head, watched his skin boil from the inside out. I had him taken to the pier where I ordered my men to cut off his arms and legs, and then drown him in the river."

"Keep going, baby!" Barbara shouted, encouraging her.

"One of my guards who was ordered to protect me…I beat him until he couldn't move and he was so psychologically damaged, he could no longer work for me. His name was Tomas." Sylvia said with little restraint. "A long time ago, maybe a couple of years, Fish Mooney had a new Umbrella Boy, a man named Timothy. Once we were done interrogating him, I took a paring knife and sliced him from hip to hip, and his entrails fell out all over the floor."

"One more, Liv!" Barbara cheered.

Sylvia said with a smile, "I made one of my employees cut open their arm and give me an artery to prove that they're still loyal to me. And, funnily enough, I _still_ don't completely trust him. But he seems to love me for it."

By now, the crowd was riled, people glancing at each other, unsure of what to think or what to say except to say that they were stunned or otherwise intrigued by Sylvia's slew of confessions.

"You come up with all these reasons to defend yourself," Mrs. James sneered. "Whether that was because they attacked your family or otherwise. You ever do anything just because you felt like it? You ever kill a man because you felt like it?"

"Personally," Sylvia said quietly, " _selfishly_ , I'd kill anyone if I **felt** like it, Mrs. James. Babies…men, women…grandfathers and grandmothers alike. All of them are simply dead to me, if given the right mood. And personally, again, _selfishly_ , I'd feel no remorse if I killed you, Mrs. James."

She started towards her, walking carefully, and yet in a trance as before.

Sylvia said darkly, "You, a person who is so fucking _weak_ and _callous. You,_ a person who thinks they can just whip their dick out anywhere and think that everyone and _anyone_ will simply bow down to you based on the fact that your husband was—at one point—somebody in this town."

Mrs. James nearly lost her balance as she was so close to the edge of the stage, stooping down so she was on her knees, hands raised above her to flail off Sylvia's dark admissions.

Sylvia chuckled, "Oh yes, I would kill you in an _**instant.**_ I'd go a step further, actually. I'd fuck my husband on _top_ of your decaying corpse, and I wouldn't lose an _ounce_ of sleep over it. Because you are nothing to me, to anyone else, not even to your fucking husband, and I'm pretty sure you and everyone here knows that. And I'd kill you because I felt like it, but not just because of that: but because everyone and _anyone_ would fucking love me for it. And if you think I'm wrong, ask them…" Sylvia slowly raised a hand, pointing to the crowd around her.

Whether or not she actually knew that she was standing on stage in front of at least fifty people was still up for debate, but Sylvia—whether or not she knew it—subconsciously knew what she was doing and to whom she was speaking.

"Fascinating." Tetch whispered.

"Why don't you kill me now." Mrs. James squeaked, looking up at her from her crouched position.

"Because…" Sylvia uttered flatly. "I don't feel like it."

Tetch chuckled, clapping his hands. Just as he did, Sylvia turned to him curiously, but not before Mrs. James quickly got down on the ground level floor and ran out of the club while she still had an inkling of self-respect left; her reporter was running directly behind her.

Barbara smirked, saying, "Mr. Tetch!"

"Yes, Miss Kean."

"See if you can't get her to fall in love with you or something." Barbara said knowingly. "I'd like to see a little Frenching before I leave as well."

Tetch chuckled saying, "I doubt I could make Sylvia do that, Miss Kean. As I've mentioned before, she must want this on a subconscious level…"

"Don't know if you don't try," Barbara said, shrugging, grinning madly. "Aren't you just a _little_ curious yourself?"

Tetch observed her for a moment before he turned to Sylvia with resolve. He put his hand over Sylvia's forehead and she became quite still.

"My dear Lark…you've finished answering the mad woman's inquiries...If you could do one last thing for me."

"What is it?" Sylvia asked monotonously.

"I do appreciate your candor and your patience, my dear," Tetch said appreciatively. "You're like the best subject a man like me in my profession could ask for."

The crowd chortled in response.

"When I count to three, you will be irrevocably in love with me. Madly in love—so in love, you won't be able to contain yourself." Tetch said dramatically. "In…one, two, three..."

Sylvia opened her eyes.

"Sylvia, my love."

She turned to him in question.

"Do you love me, Sylvia?"

"No." She answered calmly.

The crowd let out an amused chuckle, and 'oohhh!' Barbara grinned broadly as Jervis Tetch looked nearly taken aback. However, he wasn't discouraged. He put his hand on her shoulder, then gestured for the audience's pleasure, asking, "No? Are you being coy, my dear?"

"No…" Sylvia said quietly. "No…"

"Do you like me a little?"

"No…"

"Perhaps you do," Tetch said curiously, "but your heart is burdened by another."

"Or maybe you're just a terrible hypnotist," Sylvia returned with a small smile. Her smile disappeared as she closed her eyes, tightening them as though she was growing tired and needing to clear her vision. "I told you…I told you…" She gritted her teeth, grunting, "I…told…I told _you_!"

"Told me what, my dear?"

Something in her suddenly snapped. She blinked, and then smiled at Tetch. The smile reached her eyes.

"You tried hypnotizing me," Sylvia told him pointedly, "Tried to get me to fall in love with you. Didn't you, Mr. Tetch?"

"I _have_ hypnotized you." Tetch announced. "You're hypnotized. Right _now_ , in fact."

"You mean, I _was_." Sylvia hissed. She kicked him in the shins, adding, "You're a son-of-a-bitch, you know that. What the fuck did I tell you in the beginning, huh? I don't want any other man, deep down or otherwise."

Tetch rubbed his leg where she'd kicked him. The crowd laughed.

Instead of flying off the handle as he had expected her to do, Sylvia simply stood on the stage, waiting for him to gather his affect.

"You are the only person I know to have ever broken out of my spell," said Tetch, amazed.

"Well, I wish I could say the same. But you're not the first person who has tried to make me question the affection I have for my husband," said Sylvia satirically. "If you want to keep your show going, you're more than welcome to but **I** will not be a part of it."

She left the stage, followed shortly by Gabe who appeared concerned.

"I need a coke." Sylvia muttered, grabbing a can of Diet Coke from one of the bartenders, who quickly gave her one.

" _Liv_ ," Gabe began.

" _I'm_ _fine_." Sylvia said shortly before heading out the back.


	35. Ed's Back

Chapter Thirty-Five: Ed's Back

* * *

In the following hours that passed, there was an article in every newspaper that documented everything Sylvia had told Mrs. James as the reporter had written everything down as he'd seen and heard while the former was under a hypnotic state, entranced to speak only words of truth.

Sylvia was in bed, asleep. Whether it was because she'd engaged in such an emotional affair while being under Tetch's trance or whether that was because the hypnotism itself could be so mentally exhausting, Sylvia had barely gotten out of bed for the whole day except to go to the bathroom.

At her side was Demetri who read the newspaper documenting the Cobblepots' (as the paper called it) 'Most Humiliating Reveal'. He sat in an armchair within the master bedroom, glancing at her only when she stirred unceremoniously in her sleep, or when he hadn't heard her move in a good amount of time.

He read the same paragraph over and over. The newspaper article had documented each of his mistress' confessions with an itemized number. One confession in particular discussed his own trial, Sylvia's own words quoted: 'I _made one of my employees cut open their arm and give me an artery to prove that they're still loyal to me. And, funnily enough, I still don't completely trust him. But he seems to love me for i_ _t.'_ Those were her words, spoken.

"Did you mean any of that?" Demetri mumbled, more to himself than to her.

"Mean what…"

He startled, glancing up to see Sylvia slowly sitting up, rubbing her head with the heel of her palm.

"What time is it…?" She asked groggily.

"Almost afternoon," Demetri answered dutifully, although he still couldn't keep the pain of betrayal from his own voice. "Miss Sylvia, do you remember much from yesterday?"

"I was hypnotized," Sylvia murmured, the 'h' word was slowly becoming one of her least favorite words. "Why?"

Demetri handed her the newspaper. Sylvia gave it a once-over, realizing what had happened. Basically, she'd come clean to the entire world, including her own Gotham City. And the confessions—good fucking lord, the _confessions_ she had made to not only her own people but to Mrs. James and the newspaper reporter!

All of them were listed.

Hurting Jim's girlfriend—Lord, she'd have to answer to that one soon if Jim was still reading the newspaper…The sexual assault falsifying to seek revenge on her teenage antagonist…chomping off one of Maroni's men (did she ever really forget that though, not necessarily)…Killing off Tiffany's husband…hurting her own staff, poor Tomas…and there was just more and more.

The confession to literally kill Mrs. James and have sex with her husband on top of her body made Sylvia stare at the article a little longer. _Had_ she really said that? Did she really _want_ that, really?

"Oh my fucking god…" Sylvia whispered. She looked up at Demetri, who watched her with the saddest puppy dog eyes deemed possible.

"You said you trusted me." Demetri told her. "You said you forgave me…but really, you don't trust me at all, do you?"

"Demetri…" Sylvia began, but could she really come back from that? What she had confessed, that had been real spoken truths—at least from her subconscious. "I _do_ trust you…"

"You were hypnotized," Demetri said sternly. "You were told to speak the truth. The 'irrefutable' truth, as Tetch proclaimed. You said you don't trust me."

"I said I don't trust you 'completely'." Sylvia reminded. "I still do in some fashion, then, don't I?"

"I opened my _arm_ for you! I literally took out one of my arteries, and you still don't trust me."

"Darling, don't you understand what I'm trying to say? I don't trust _anyone_ in some type of fashion. I barely trust Butch or Gabe, for that matter—I can barely trust even my own friends, even Jim sometimes. You're not any different than them." Sylvia said, slowly climbing to the edge of the bed so she could meet him.

Demetri crossed his arms, unconvinced.

"Yes," She said quietly. "A part of me still thinks you'll betray me. That's because despite everything I've done for you, you would have still allowed yourself to betray me based on whatever Delilah was telling you. That part of me is never going to let that go."

She touched the underside of his chin, tilting it up so he was forced to meet her eyes.

"You're loyal to me…for now." Sylvia said gently. "That's all that matters now, Sweetheart."

"You trust me, then?"

"I do."

"You still want me around?"

"Of course, I do." Sylvia insisted. "You're helpful. You're sweet. You've been helping Oswald with so many of his errands, and you've helped me a lot too. Yes, I still want you around."

"Okay…so all that stuff in the paper…"

"It was true, but only to a point." Sylvia returned sweetly.

Demetri smiled and he hugged her. She hugged him back. He left her side so she could get ready for the day.

* * *

When she was dressed, Sylvia left the master bedroom, and steadily walked through the corridor to the kitchen where she reached inside the refrigerator and grabbed a glass bottle of orange juice.

"Hey, _Liv_."

Ed's voice threw her off.

Sylvia screamed, "FUCKING CHRIST!" and she dropped the bottle of orange juice; it shattered into glass shards on the kitchen tile, spilling juice on it, Ed, and herself.

She was leaned against the kitchen counter, her back against it while she grabbed the place her heart used to be, and steadily caught her breath. Meanwhile, Ed looked thoroughly pleased with himself while simultaneously remorseful for having scared her so badly.

"What the fuck, _Ed_ ," Sylvia snapped when she finally got her bearings. "Why are you here—where—where the fuck did you even come from?"

"Arkham," Ed answered, gesturing to himself. "I clean up nice, do I not?"

Sylvia looked him over, only now realizing that he wasn't wearing the Arkham Asylum generated wear that all inmates were distributed prior to becoming a prisoner. Instead, he wore a black-over-charcoal gray pinstriped, three-piece suit; same colored dress jacket over a white collared shirt, and dark blue tie. His hair was pulled back handsomely, and the smile was cunning as he was intelligent.

"Excuse me." Sylvia muttered. She turned her back, and laid two of the kitchen towels down on the floor, stepping on them so they could absorb the juice quicker.

As she did, Ed rubbed his own suit with a wet wash cloth, offering the same to her since she had spilled juice on herself as well. Sylvia declined.

"I guess Oswald was able to get you out," Sylvia said pointedly, gesturing to and facing him.

"It was the quickest trip to rehabilitation one could ever ask for."

"You're not rehabilitated."

"No, I'm not. But my certificate says I am."

"Fascinating." Sylvia said, unenthusiastic.

"Weird."

"What?"

"Well, I thought you'd be more elated," Ed said curiously. He added with less certainty, "You and I are still in a truce, correct?"

"Unless you've done something to harm my brother or anyone else in my family, then yes, we are." Sylvia answered stoically.

Ed surveyed her for a moment.

"What the fuck are you staring at?" Sylvia questioned.

"Nothing. Well, not 'nothing', but if you don't mind me saying, you don't seem to be yourself." Ed noted calmly. He gestured as such, "In fact, you're acting really odd."

" _I'm_ acting odd."

"Yes."

"Me."

"Yes."

"I'm acting odd," Sylvia chuckled quietly. "Well, if I'm acting odd, then _you_ are on a whole other scale, my friend."

Ed sent her a look.

She smiled weakly, muttering, "Sorry. You're right…"

"Care to explain?"

"Explain what?"

"Why you're acting odd," Ed emphasized.

"I was hypnotized yesterday," said Sylvia frankly. "The 'Great Jervis Tetch'. Snide, over eager, little…Anyway, he was able to get inside my head, and…Fuck it, here. Read for yourself." She handed him one of the newspapers that had been sitting around, left no doubt by the other people who were inhabiting the manor prepping for Oswald's campaign.

Ed perused the newspaper and its articles, reading one in particular that focused solely on Mrs. James' impromptu visit to Sylvia's club after an interview with the Gotham Gazette that had literally gone no where in succeeding in 'outing' Sylvia and Oswald's true personality. The visit itself, the article continued, proved to show just what type of person the allegedly 'new first lady' really is like, and what more may be expected if her husband were to take the position of Mayor.

After he read the article, Ed looked up to see Sylvia's smile depreciate to an expression of self-loathing. She sat at the kitchen table, holding a new bottle of orange juice in her hand; her head was on the table.

Ed sighed, and he sat beside her.

"It's not nearly as bad as you think." He said gently as he put the paper to the side and touched her arm.

"'Not nearly as bad'? Ed, did you even read the damn thing?" Sylvia asked, her face still on the table. "I practically spilled my guts to everyone and anyone who can read or listen. I confessed to murder—probably in every degree possible. I'm surprised the GCPD hasn't come banging on my door to arrest me."

"'And this, too, shall pass.'"

Sylvia looked at him: " _What_?"

Ed grinned, saying, "A most powerful eastern Persian ruler who called his sages to him, including the Sufi poet Attar of Nishapur, asked them for one quote that would be accurate at all times and in all situations. The wise men consulted with one another, and threw themselves into the depths of contemplation, and, after much toiling for it, finally came up with the answer. So saith the quote: 'This too, shall pass'. The ruler was so impressed by it, he had it inscribed in a ring."

"What's your point, Ed?" Sylvia asked tiredly.

"People work for you, still?"

"Mm-hmm. So?"

"So that means everyone in the Underworld basically knows who and _what_ you are."

"Yes." Sylvia returned. "I guess that's true."

"So," Ed reasoned, "that's basically half of Gotham. More than half, actually, if my calculations are correct."

"So more than half of these people think I'm a piece of shit. They know what I know, now. Brilliant," Sylvia groaned. "Thanks for that."

"That's not my point at all," Ed laughed.

"Okay…"

"The people in the GCPD _also_ know what kind of person you're like."

"Not all of those people know what I've done." Sylvia reminded with a whine. "Harvey knows _some_ , maybe _more_ but he only thinks I might kill people for the fuck of it. At least when I go waltzing into the station, people genuinely greet me and think I'm a good person."

"And now that they know, do you think any of them—Harvey Bullock, Captain Barnes—will think any less of you?" asked Ed pointedly.

Sylvia shrugged, " **Maybe**."

"Literally, more than half of the people in Gotham are corrupt. They know who and what you are. They call you 'Lark' in Arkham, and I've heard the name through the streets and when people talk about you." Ed continued, grinning broadly.

"I can't help but feel you liked saying that."

"The public already knows half of these confessions, and there's a **third** of them that are so trivial that they don't even matter _now_." Ed said, pointing to the article in the newspaper. "What you did as a child—that was almost twenty years ago. Beating a dead horse, if you ask me."

"But Ed," Sylvia whined, "I told Mrs. James that I wouldn't mind **killing** her or fucking Oswald on her dead body—that doesn't exactly hold a candle to a good reputation."

"And in the article," Ed reminded, "you told her that no one would care if she was dead. That wasn't an opinion. It was the truth."

"It's what _I_ believe to be true." Sylvia argued. "Because like a sheep I did what Tetch told me to do. To tell the truth. My truth."

"The ' _irrefutable'_ truth," He specified. "That means a truth no one would argue, debate, or at least care enough about _to_ debate."

Sylvia looked at Ed, who grinned just as easily at her as he did when they first met. Like he was waiting for her to get the well-intended joke. But didn't she?

"So…" She muttered. "I haven't cost Oswald the campaign?"

Ed clapped her cheerfully on the back in response: "If anything, I think you might've pushed him towards it. Honesty isn't a flaw."

"It can be one though."

"Only if you're a lawyer," Ed joked.

"You might be onto something," Sylvia giggled.

Ed patted her back. She sat up, and leaned into her chair.

"So what finally broke you out of the trance?" asked Ed conversationally as he stood and brought back a few crackers and slices of cheese.

"Wanting to know that answer for a while, haven't you," Sylvia said mischievously.

"I do love answers."

"You like riddles."

"Those too."

"Well, to answer your question: Tetch did, accidentally at least."

"How did he do that?"

"He tried to give me a scenario during which I was irrevocably in love with _him_." Sylvia said carelessly. "In the same day that I'd turned him down."

"The scenario didn't work, I'm assuming."

"You assume right. I broke out of the trance, like **that**." She snapped her fingers. "Wasn't hard."

Ed chuckled lowly, "I suppose if he tried hypnotizing you into loving _me_ , you might have had a harder time breaking out of the trance."

Sylvia glanced at him warily. At first, Ed might think she was going to strike him in the face since he'd reminded her of his enamored feelings for her that were incidentally bottled inside, but instead, Sylvia smiled in spite of herself, and ate a cracker with a slice of cheese.

"I suppose I might've." Sylvia conceded, side-glancing at him as she tossed it back with a sip of orange juice.

"You look good—er, great, by the way," Ed said quickly, gesturing to her in general.

"Thanks." Sylvia answered. She licked her lips of the salt from the crackers, and added, "I've been having to buy more clothes because of Csilla."

"Who?"

"The baby." She explained.

"Oh, the baby, right, right," Ed said, nodding. "How's she doing in there?"

"Well, she's not in a five-star luxury suite, Ed. I guess she's doing fine."

"I don't know. I think being in any part of you would be luxurious." Sylvia blinked and when Ed realized what he'd said, he cleared his throat, muttering, "Boy, that did _not_ come out in the way I had intended."

"I would have hoped not," Sylvia laughed nervously, smiling in spite of his humiliation. After a moment of what was awkward silence, she stood, saying, "I…um…I better go see if I can't catch Oswald before the media gobbles him up. He's a busy man, you know."

"Of course, I understand. I'll see you around, I guess." Ed said, standing when she did. After she smiled and quickly left, he sat back down and literally facepalmed. "Foot in mouth, Ed…both feet."


	36. Somewhere Only We Know

Chapter Thirty-Six: Somewhere Only We Know

* * *

Two more months passed.

In that time, Sylvia and Ed had become something of a team in keeping Oswald ahead of the mayor.

As previously noted, Sylvia wasn't into the politicking part of the world. Instead, she preferred to deal with the lesser characters that revolved around in the Underworld. While Oswald was still performing as the King of Gotham, his role in the Underworld, had to go underground…but it was very much alive. She would go to her club, schedule to have the Families meet when Oswald could be pulled from his mayoral campaign, and they'd conduct business until Ed called and mentioned that the press and the other media were wanting a random-ass conference, and so he'd be pulled to the political world where, then, Ed would control the aspects of the schedule.

In some ways, Oswald was tossed around from one advisor to another, Ed and Sylvia serving in different roles but typically in the same aspect in each world. And if not for either of them, Oswald was certain he might have lost his mind with meetings and gatherings, parties, obligations being thrown at him from all sides of the court.

During that time, Sylvia's belly grew.

Her clothes no longer fit, having gained an extra twenty-seven pounds! Her back was achier, and one day she'd have no energy but in the next she'd be bouncing off the walls. People from across the room who hadn't even known her could tell that she was pregnant, and steadily, it wasn't only Oswald who had grown more protective of her.

Gabe, Demetri, Dagger, Chilly, and even Butch, kept a close eye on her whenever she was out in public; either in her club, at a meeting with the lesser characters of the Families, or even at a press conference where Oswald would go head-to-head with Aubrey James, outmatching and outsmarting one another in their future promises for Gotham City.

The campaign had been a grueling match, overall. With the baby so close to coming out, Sylvia wanted it all to be done.

After yet another press conference, Oswald had come back to the mansion, entering the master bedroom to see Sylvia gathering two diaper bags together, full of the diapers, clothes, wet napkins, and many other items that had been generously given to her by the population, as well as from the Five Families' families.

Her soft grunts as she straightened and small sighs of exhaustion as she squatted in an effort to put everything 'just so' before the departure to the hospital in preparing for the baby's arrival made Oswald walk towards her, taking her arm and gently moving her to the bed.

"What? I'm _fine_ , I can do it," Sylvia insisted. It wasn't the first time he mistook her sounds of effort for ones of pain. "I'm fine, Oswald. I'm _fine_."

"If you move anymore…"

"The baby might fall out of me—you've said that plenty of times," Sylvia reminded, grinning despite the situation. She lied back on the bed, hands on her belly. "I'm just ready for this whole thing to be over, honestly. I can't wait to move around and do what I've normally done. It's been nine months since I've done _anything_."

Oswald sat beside her, placing his cane against the wardrobe, and undoing his jacket so he could be more comfortable doing so. His hand gently squeezed the sides of her knee, and it made her giggle.

"Stop, you know I'm ticklish!" Sylvia said, smacking his hand away.

"How are you feeling otherwise?"

"My back aches, but heh, what's new."

Oswald stood and crawled into the middle of the bed; as she watched him curiously, Sylvia joined him. He gestured for her to turn and she sat in front of him, legs crossed awkwardly but comfortably in front of her. She'd long ago forgone the use of wearing dresses, preferring sweatpants or elastic capris in favor of the formal wear.

Silently, Oswald massaged her shoulders and ran his hands over her lower back, digging in deep enough to find her aching muscle, pressing down and hearing her soft, quiet sighs of content and relief.

"One thing I look forward to," He said lightly, "is the freedom of doing more than just this."

"We _still_ can have sex…It's never off the table."

"I don't mind this show of intimacy."

"I'd rather fuck you in terms of intimacy."

"We tried that, remember? Yesterday, actually."

"I'm just saying," She mumbled. "I can never say 'no' to you. It's just uncomfortable for the time being. Besides…I found other ways of making you happy." She craned her head back, winking at him: "You've not complained once."

"You make me happy in every aspect of our relationship."

"Such a gentleman's answer."

"And yet, true."

He leaned forward; she reclined back, and he wrapped his arms around her front, his hands on the topmost section of her belly; her hands lightly caressed his knuckles. They were quiet for a moment, and in that moment, Csilla wiggled a little. Oswald let out a small laugh, always captivated when Csilla recognized his touch, differentiating between him and her mother.

"Do we have enough clothes?" Sylvia asked, suddenly concerned. "I only counted…fifty in each bag."

"We have enough, and more." He reassured, kissing her ear. "Even if we didn't, I'm certain Demetri has become well-versed in shopping for infants, he'd be more than capable of finding more."

"Not just him."

"Of course…"

"Barbara has helped too, mind you," Sylvia said, smiling. "She's actually been very supportive, you know."

"I _do_ know. It wouldn't be because she harbors some adolescent-like crush on you, do you think? Or that she has you to thank for the prosperity of her club to begin with," Oswald responded, unable to hide his own passive disdain. "I still don't understand what possessed you to give her such a substantial amount—"

"She's just grateful, Ozzie," Sylvia pacified. "She's been supportive of Csilla, and gave her all the baby clothes she and Jim had at her apartment. That accounts for nearly twenty or thirty of those newborn outfits. Not to mention the crib, the car seat…"

"I get your point, Pigeon."

"Okay, well, you know, just saying in case you think she has some ulterior motive for helping us."

"I think she _does_ have an ulterior motive."

"What is it, then?"

"I have no idea." Oswald said suspiciously. "But she has one. Trust me."

"I trust you, sweetie."

Sylvia sighed, leaning further back into him so her head lied on the front of his shoulder. He looked down, seeing the contentment on her face, the way she relaxed her eyebrows and her eyes.

"How's Ed doing?" asked Sylvia, opening them so she could peer up at him. "He seems to be taking the reigns as your personal mayoral assistant rather easily."

"I think he has fun with it, to be honest."

"Well, you know what they say. You don't work a day in your life if you love what you do," said Sylvia, shrugging modestly. "I think he doesn't mind Demetri trying to help him either. Demetri looks up to him so much, what with him being intelligent and insanely organized, I think he might have a crush to be honest."

"Demetri likes Ed?" Oswald asked incredulously.

"One could see why. I mean, _I_ can."

Sylvia bit her bottom lip the moment she said it. She felt Oswald tense behind her. She slowly looked up at him, knowing she'd see a hard look waiting for her to peer up at, and sure enough…well, while he didn't appear as jealous or betrayed, he _did_ seem put off by her casual comment.

"I'm just being transparent," Sylvia said tactfully. "He's handsome enough, smart enough, fashionable enough. A young man like Demetri or anyone his age would revere Ed."

Oswald sighed, hinting for Sylvia to get off him. Reluctantly, Sylvia did and she looked at him reproachfully. He stood, looking at the diaper bags as though pondering their own existence before he returned his eyes to her.

"You said you don't have any feelings towards him." Oswald stated factually. "Long ago…"

"I still don't," Sylvia insisted, sitting on her knees. "He's a friend to me. Just that. Nothing else."

"Are you certain?"

"Are we to have the same discussion any time I remark on a person's attractiveness?" Sylvia asked tiredly, frowning slightly when Oswald appeared more tense. "It was an _innocent_ remark, you know."

"We won't have to have this discussion about everyone you comment on, of course not," Oswald replied coolly, but that frigid tone still ebbed in and out. "But, as you may or may not recall, you once held a certain reverence to Edward yourself."

"'As I may or may not recall'?" Sylvia repeated defensively. She moved off the bed, grunting slightly when all of her weight pulled on her belly as gravity took its turn. "You make it sound as though I just _randomly_ forgot about it. Oswald, yes, at one point or another, I fancied Ed. I was attracted to him, _yes_ , but that was **before** he framed my brother. And yes, he did kiss me, and no, I didn't exactly stop it, but I renounced my feelings for him soon after, if you _may or may not_ recall."

"You feel nothing for him?" Oswald asked firmly.

"I have only platonic feelings for him, Ozzie. Please, why must we have this argument? We've been together long enough, surely you wouldn't feel so paranoid?" Sylvia asked tiredly, stepping towards him. "He's worked with you and me for at least two months. I mean, for heaven's sake, we've lived under the same roof. Not once have I ever tried to get in bed with him, or anything more or less sordid. So why is this an issue, _still_?"

"I don't know," He responded, surprising himself.

"You don't know?"

"I don't."

Sylvia moved towards him, wrapping her arms around his neck, smiling encouragingly up at him in hopes that her spirit would somehow hush the suspicious voices in his head.

"Do you think yourself inferior to him?" asked Sylvia gently. "That I would love someone else, _anyone_ else, besides you?"

Oswald said nothing, but looked at her with the answer in his eyes.

"Tetch tried to hypnotize me, you know." Sylvia said quietly. "Tried to hypnotize me into believing that I was somehow in love with him: a powerful illusionist."

"I know how much he enjoy illusions and magic." Oswald returned, disgruntled.

"But you know what happened?"

"What…"

"He couldn't," She whispered ardently. "He tried to, but I broke out of the trance almost immediately. Do you know why, darling?"

"Can't say I do."

"Because I could love no other man, but you." Sylvia told him, lightly brushing her fingers under his chin and caressing his face between her palms. "You are the only man for me, Sweetheart. You, and no one else. Not even a renowned hypnotist could convince me otherwise."

Oswald watched her for a long minute. The minute seemed to stretch on for hours in Sylvia's world, but then he smiled, feeling more like an idiot that he had questioned her love for him.

"I'm sorry, Pigeon," He uttered quietly. "Sometimes, a man gets insecure."

"For good reason, but there's a place in your heart that only I can fill. And when you feel uncertain, or afraid, you know you can always go there and find me. And you can feel me there, can't you?"

She touched his chest with her hand.

"Of course I can," Oswald reassured, covering her hand with his. "Can you feel it in yours?"

"I can feel you _everywhere_ , darling. And it's a special place."

"Is it?"

"It's a place, alright. It's home. And it's a place somewhere only _we_ know."

* * *

A/N: Don't worry, peeps. Sequel is posted: It's called "Enter The Villain". Be forewarned: It's pretty angsty, man.


End file.
